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of  ti)c 

Umbergitp  of  J^ortf)  Carolina 


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anb 

Pfjtlantfjropic  iborieties: 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 

111)1111  III 

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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hi 


http://www.archive.org/details/childrensfriend02berq 


THE    LITTLE    FIDDLER. 


Jonas.  I  had  tied  up  all  my  money  in  the  handkerchief,  and  was  going  to  undo 
the  knot,  when  he  snatched  at  it.  1  guessed  his  roguery.  So  he  palled  one  way  and 
I  another,  when  all  at  once  seeing  where  my  fiddle  lay  on  the  ground,  he 
on  it  with  both  his  feet.    V 


THE 

CHILDREN'S  FRIEND, 


TRANSLATED 


FROM      THE      FRENCH 


M.  BERQUIN. 


A       NEW       AND       REVISED       EDITION. 


lT0l    X*. 


BOSTON. 

PUBLISHED    BY    MUNROE    AND    FRANCIS. 
AND     BY     CHARLES    S.    FRANCIS,    NEW-YORK. 

1833. 


Entered,  according  to  act  of  congress,   in  the  year  1833, 

By  Monroe  &  Frawcis, 
in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  district  court  of  Massachusetts. 


CHILDREN'S    FRIEND, 


THE    LITTLE  FIDDLER: 

A  DRAMA    IN    ONE   ACT. 

characters. 
Mr.  Melfort. 

Charles, his  So?i. 

Sophia, his  Daughter. 

Godfrey, his  Nephew. 

Amelia  Richmond, 

Charlotte  Richmond,  .  .  .  Friends  of  Sophia. 

Jonas, • the  Little  Fiddler. 

Scene,  Mr.  Melfort3 s  House. 

SCENE    I.      Charles  and  Godfrey. 

Charles.     Hark  ye,  cousin.     You  must  do  me  a 
favour. 

Godf.     Come,  let  us  see  what  it  is  ?     You  have 

always  something  or  other  to  ask  of  me. 

^       Charles.     It  is  because  you   are  the  cleverer  of 

J  the  two.     You  know  the  translation  of  that  fable 

fr»  of  Phaedrus,  that  our  tutor  has  given  me  for  a  task. 

-**  1* 


O  LITTLE    FIDDLER. 

Godf.     What,  have  you  not  finished  it  yet  ? 
Charles.     How  do  you  think  I  should  have  fin- 
ished it  when  I  have  not  begun  it  1 

Godf.  You  have  not  had  time  then  to  do  it  from 
twelve  o'clock  till  four  ! 

Charles.  You  shall  see  now  whether  that  was 
possible.  At  eleven  o'clock  I  could  not  help  taking 
a  turn  or  two  in  the  garden,  in  order  to  get  an  appe- 
tite for  my  dinner.  We  were  at  table  an  hour. 
Then  to  sit  down  and  study  immediately  after 
one's  meals,  you  know  how  dangerous  papa's  doc- 
tor says  that  is.  So,  as  I  had  made  a  hearty  dinner, 
I  had  occasion  for  a  good  deal  of  exercise  to  digest 
it,  you  know. 

Godf.  Well,  now  at  least  you  have  had  exercise 
enough  ;  and  before  dark  there  is  more  time  than 
you  want,  to  finish  your  task. 

Charles.  You  do  not  consider  that  just  now  I 
must  go  to  my  writing. 

Godf.  But  since  your  writing-master  is  not 
come 

Charles.  I  shall  wait  for  him.  It  would  be 
spoiling  every  thing,  to  confound  my  hours  of  busi- 
ness. 

Godf.  Well  then,  after  your  writing,  you  have 
still  some  of  the  afternoon  and   the  whole  evening. 

Charles.  I  shall  not  have  a  minute.  My  sister 
expects  the  two  Misses  Richmond  to  come  to  see 
her. 

Godf.    It  is  not  on  your  account  that  they  come.  p 

Charles.    No.     But  then  I  must  help  my  sister  to  X 
entertain  them.  •>••• 


LITTLE    FIDDLER.  7 

Godf.  What  will  hinder  you  when  the  young 
ladies  go  away  ? — 

Charles.  O  yes,  indeed  !  to  work  by  candle- 
light, and  spoil  my  eyes  !  Yet  my  translation  must 
be  ready  by  to-morrow  morning. 

Godf.  Well  !  whether  it  is  or  not,  what  is  that 
to  me  ? 

Charles.  And  would  you  see  me,  then,  repri- 
manded by  my  tutor  and  my  papa  ? 

Godf.  You  always  know  how  to  get  the  better 
of  me.     Come,  let  me  see,  where  is  this  task  ? 

Charles.  Above  stairs  in  my  room,  on  the  table. 
I  will  go  for  it ;  or  rather  come  along  with  me. 

Godf.  Do  you  go  first.  I  shall  follow  immedi- 
ately. I  see  your  sister  coming  this  way.  She 
wanted  to  speak  with  me. 

Charles.  But  don't  you  tell  her  any  thing  of 
this  ;  you  understand  me. 

SCENE  II.     Sophia  and  Godfrey. 

Soph.  Well,  cousin,  what  have  you  and  my 
brother  been  conversing  about.  He  has  certainly 
been  playing  you  one  of  his  old  tricks. 

Godf  No,  but  he  has  been  making  me  one  of 
his  old  requests.  He  wants  me  as  usual  to  perform 
his  task  for  him  against  to-morrow. 

Soph.  And  is  my  papa  never  to  be  informed  of 
his  idleness  ? 

Godf  I  shall  not  undertake  that  office.  You 
know  that  ever  since  your  mamma's  death,  my  un- 
cle's health  has  been  so  precarious,  that  the  least 
emotion  makes  him  ill  for  some  days.     Besides,  his 


8  LITTLE    FIDDLER. 

generosity  supports  me  ;  and  he  might  think  that  I 
wished  to  hurt  your  brother  in  his  esteem. 

Soph.  Well  then,  I  shall  talk  to  my  brother  the 
first  opportunity — But  do  you  know  what  I  had  to 
say  to  you  ?  The  Miss  Richmonds  are  coming  to 
see  me  to-day,  and  you  must  assist  us  in  our  amuse- 
ments. 

Godf.     O,  I  shall  certainly  do  my  best,  cousin- 

Soph.     Ah,  here  they  are  ! 

Enter  Amelia  and  Charlotte  Richmond. 

Soph.  How  do  you  do,  my  dear  friends  ? 
( They  salute  each  other,  and  curtsy  to  Godfrey „ 
ivho  botes  to  them.) 

Char.     It  seems  an  age  since  I  saw  you  last. 

Amelia.     Indeed  it  is  a  long  time. 

Soph.     I  believe  it  is  more  than  three  weeks. 
(Godfrey  draws  out  the  table  andgives  themchairs.) 

Char.  Do  not  give  yourself  so  much  trouble, 
Master  Godfrey. 

Godf.     Miss,  I  only  do  my  duty. 

Soph.  Oh  !  I  am  very  sure  Godfrey  does  it  with 
pleasure,  (gives  him  her  hand)  I  wish  my  brother 
had  a  little  of  his  complaisance. 

Enter  Charles. 

Charles  (without  taking  notice  of  the  Miss  Rich- 
monds.) This  is  very  pretty  of  you,  Godfrey,  to 
let  me  wait  so  long  while  you  are  playing  the  fine 
gentleman. 

Godf.     I  thought  I  should  be  the  last  person  in 


LITTLE    FIDDLER.  y 

the  company  to  whom  you  would  direct  your  com- 
pliments. 

Charles.  O  do  not  be  angry,  ladies  ;  I  shall  be 
at  your  service  presently. 

Amelia.  O  pray  do  not  hurry  yourself,  Mr. 
Charles.  {Charles  takes  Godfrey  aside,  and  ichile 
the  young  ladies  converse  together,  draws  a  paper 
from  his  pocket,  which  he  gives  him.) 

Charles.     There  it  is  ;  you  understand  me. 

Godf  Six  lines  !  a  great  task  indeed  !  are  you 
not  ashamed  1 

Charles.     Hist  !  hold  your  tongue. 

Godf.  Ladies,  if  you  give  me  leave,  I  will  just 
step  out  for  a  few  minutes. 

Char.  We  shall  expect  your  return  with  impa- 
tience. 

Soph.  Since  you  are  going  out,  cousin,  pray  bid 
Jenny  bring  in  tea. 

SCENE  III.  Charles,  Sophia,  Amelia,  Charlotte. 

Charles  (throwing  himself  into  an  arm-chair.) 
Soh  !  I  shall  take  possession  of  this. 

Soph.  I  think  it  would  have  been  civil  to  ask 
leave. 

Charles.     Your  leave,  perhaps  ? 

Soph.     I  am  not  the  only  person  here. 

Char.     I  see  your  brother  counts  us  as  nothing. 

Amelia.  He  thinks  certainly  that  he  does  us  a 
great  deal  of  honour  in  keeping  uafrcompany. 

Charles.  O,  I  know  you  could  do  without  my 
company  ;  but  I  could  not  so  easily  deprive  myself 
of  yours. 


10  LITTLE    FIDDLER. 

Soph.  There  is  at  least  the  appearance  of  a 
compliment.  Though,  I  believe,  to  say  the  truth, 
the  tea  should  come  in  for  the  greatest  part  of  it. 

Charles.  You  are  very  right,  my  dear  sister,  in 
not  thinking  that  I  stay,  at  least,  on  your  account. 

Soph.  O  as  to  that,  I  have  too  humble  an  opin- 
ion of  my  own  merit.  All  that  I  should  take  pride 
in,  is,  that  I  am  sister  to  so  polite  a  young  gentle- 
man. [Jenny  brings  the  tea  and  sets  it  before  So- 
phia.) 

Charles.     Let  me  pour  it  out,  pray  do. 

Soph.  No,  no,  that  is  my  business  ;  you  are  a 
little  too  awkward.  If  you  want  to  do  something, 
hand  these  ladies  their  cups. 

Amelia,     Not  so  much  sugar  for  me. 

Soph.  Help  yourself,  my  dear,  to  your  liking. 
{Hands  her  a  cup  [and  the  sugar  basin.  Charles 
takes  a  cup  for  himself,  arid  gets  hold  of  the  sugar.) 
Charles,  you  have  got  three  great  lumps  already. 

Charles.  Why,  that  is  not  too  much.  I  like  it 
pretty  sweet.  ( Takes  several  bits  one  after  an- 
other, till  his  sister  gets  the  basin  out  of  his  hand.) 

Sopk.  Are  you  not  ashamed,  brother  1  You 
see  there  will  be  none  left  for  us. 

Charles.  Well,  don't  you  know  the  way  to  the 
sugar-canister  ? 

Soph.  My  brother  would  think  he  had  done 
wrong,  if  he  saved  his  sister  any  trouble. 

Charles.  No;^but  if  you  went  for  it,  I  should 
have  the  pleasure  of  being  alone  with  these  ladies. 

Amelia.  Do  you  hear  that,  Sophia?  Now  will 
you  say  that  your  brother  is  not  perfectly  polite  ? 


5 
j  * 

LITTLE    FIDDLER.  11 

Soph,  (having  collected  all  the  cups  before  her, 
and  filled  them  again.)  Charles,  hand  Amelia  this 
cup.      (Charles  takes  the  cap,  and  in  handing  it  to 

Amelia,  spills  the  tea  upon   her  slip. They   all 

rise  hastily.) 

Soph.  There's  an  instance  of  his  politeness, 
(Aside  to  Charles.)  I  dare  say,  you  ill-natured 
creature,  that  was  done  on  purpose. 

Amelia.  O  dear!  what  will  mamma  say,  and 
what  shall  we  do. 

Char.  This  is  only  the  second  time  she  has 
worn  this  slip.     Make  haste,  a  glass  of  clean  water. 

Soph.  No  ;  I  have  heard  that  it  is  better  to  rub 
it  with  a  dry  linen  cloth.  Here  is  a  handkerchief 
quite  clean.  (They  go  to  assist  Amelia,  Charlotte 
holds  her  slip,  and  Sophia  rubs  it.  Meantime 
Charles  remains  at  table,  quite  unconcerned,  drink- 
ing his  tea.) 

Char.  There,  it  begins  to  disappear,  you  must 
let  it  dry. 

Amelia.  By  good  luck,  it  is  in  a  fold,  where  one 
will  not  think  of  looking. 

Charles     (aside.)     That's  not  my  fault. 

Soph.  There,  look  now,  Charlotte,  I  do  not 
think  it  will  be  observed. 

C  ar.     If  I  had  not  seen  the  spot  before — 

Amelia.  Very  true.  Howrever,  Mr.  Charles, 
another  time  I  shall  beg  you  to  spare  yourself  the 
trouble  of  waiting  on  me. 

Soph.  Come,  ladies,  let  us  take  rur  places  again. 
(Going  to  pour  out  the  tea,  she  finds  the  teapot 
empty,  looks  angrily  at  Charles.)     Well,  this  is   a 


12 


LITTLE    FIDDLER. 


piece  of  ill  manners  that  I  could  not  have  imagined. 
Would  you  believe  it,  ladies  1  while  we  were  so 
much  concerned,  he  has  taken  all  the  tea.  How- 
ever, stop  a  moment,  I  will  go  and  order  more. 

Char.  No,  there  has  been  quite  enough;  I  could 
not  drink  another  drop. 

Amelia.  The  misfortune  to  my  dress  has  taken 
away  my  thirst. 

Charles.  But  I  beg  you  will  make  no  ceremony. 
They  can  soon  bring  us  more. 

Amelia.  Really  I  think  you  should  have  known 
beforehand  that  your  brother  was  to  be  one  of  the 
company. 

Soph.  Those  who  are  not  invited  should  at 
least  wait  until  it  were  their  turn. 

Char.  Let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  It  does  not 
give  me  the  least  concern. 

Soph.  Well,  what  shall  we  do  now  ?  Ah,  here 
is  our  friend  Godfrey.  He  will  help  us  to  fix  on 
some  amusement. 

Charles  (mimics  her.)    Our  friend  Godfrey ! 

But,  ladies,  I  must  speak  to  him  before  you.  (Goes 
to  meet  Godfrey,  while  the  young  ladies  converse 
together.) 

Enter  Godfrey. 

Charles,    (to  Godfrey.)  Well,  have  you  done  it  ? 

Godf  There,  take  it,  and  blush  for  your  idle- 
ness.— Well,  ladies,  have  you  fixed  upon  any 
amusement? 

Amelia.     No,  we  waited  for  you  to  determine  us. 

Godf.     I  have  got  a  little  musician  below  stairs 


LITTLE    FIDDLER- —  13 

at  your  service.  If  you  give  me  leave,  I  will  call 
him  up  to  sing  you  a  song,  or  to  play,  if  you  choose 
to  dance. 

Soph.  A  little  musician  !  where  is  he  1  where 
is  he  ? 

Char.  We  must  own  that  master  Godfrey 
knows  how  to  amuse  his  company. 

Godf.  At  the  same  time  that  we  amuse  ourselves, 
we  shall  do  an  act  of  charity  ;  for  the  poor  little 
fellow  has  no  livelihood  but  his  violin. 

Charles.  And  who  will  pay  him,  master  God- 
frey ?  He  talks  and  acts  as  if  the  king  were 
his  cousin,    and  he  has  not  a  farthing  all  the  while. 

Soph.  Are  not  you  ashamed,  brother  ? 

Godf.  Let  him  go  on,  cousin,  he  does  not  offend 
me.  It  is  no  crime  to  be  poor.  I  am  the  liker  my 
little  musician,  who  is,  for  all  that,  a  very  good  boy. 
I  will  give  him  sixpence  that  I  have  remaining  in 
my  purse  ;  and  he  has  promised  to  play  for  that  all 
the  evening. 

Char.     We  will  make  a  collection  to  pay  him. 

Amelia.     Yes,  yes  ;  we  shall  club. 

Godf.  Shall  I  go  for  him  ?  he  waits  below  at  the 
door. 

Soph.  By  all  means,  my  dear  cousin,  and  make 
haste.  (Godfrey  goes  out,  mean  time  Jenny  brings 
in  a  cake  upon  a  plate.) 

SCENE.    Amelia,  Charlotte,  Sophia,  Charles. 

Charles,  (going  to  take  the  plate  from  Jenny, 
Sophia  prevents  him.)    I  was  only  going  to  cut  it  up. 


14  LITTLE    FIDDLER. 

Soph.  I  shall  save  you  the  trouble  ;  you  would 
cut  it  up  so  well,  I  suppose,  that  we  should  have  no 
more  of  the  cake  than  we  had  of  the  tea.  (She  di- 
vides it  and  hands  it  round.) 

Charles,  (after  taking  his  share.)  Who  is  to 
have  the  piece  that  is  left  1 

Soph.     What !  is  ray  cousin  to  have  none  1 

Amelia.     I  would  rather  give  him  ray  part. 

Char.     And  I  mine. 

Charles,  (with  a  sneer.)  He  is  exceedingly 
happy. 

Soph.  Can  you  see  nothing  but  his  cake  to  envy 
him  ? 

Enter  Godfrey,  leading  in  Jonas  by  the  hand,  who 
has  his  violin  under  his  arm. 

Godf.  Give  me  leave  to  present  you  ray  young 
performer. 

Charlotte  8f  Amelia.     He  is  a  smart  little  fellow. 

Soph.  Where  do  you  come  from,  my  man  ? 

Jonas.  I  come  from  the  wolds  of  Yorkshire, 
ma'am. 

Amelia.  La  !  what  has  made  you  come  thus  far  1 

Jonas.  Because  my  poor  father  is  blind  and  an- 
not  work.  So  we  travel  the  country,  and  I  support 
him  with  my  fiddle. 

Soph.  Well,  will  you  give  us  a  ^specimen  of 
your  performance  ? 

Jonas,  That  I  will,  with  all  my  heart;  but  my 
skill  is  not  very  great. 

Godf.  Play  your  best ;  at  any  rate  it  will  be 
well  enough  for  me,  and  these  ladies  will  be  so  good 


LITTLE    FIDDLER.  23 

Soph.     No  ;  it  is  not  mine  now. 

Char.  If  you  ever  pass  our  way,  I  will  do  some- 
thing for  you. 

Amelia.  'Tis  in  Green  Square ;  any  body  will 
show  you  Mr.  Richmond's. 

Jonas.  Oh  !  great  folks  seldom  ask  me  into 
their  houses.  I  am  sometimes,  perhaps,  taken  down 
into  the  kitchen. 

Soph.  Well,  enough  of  this.  Your  father,  prob- 
ably is  uneasy  on  your  account,  and  ours  may  return 
very  soon. 

Jonas.  How,  miss  !  your  papa  1  Do  you  expect 
him  soon  ? 

Soph.  Yes,  go  your  ways,  else  the  rogue  who 
took  your  handkerchief  and  money  may  take  this 
from  you  too. 

Jonas.  But  I  hope  you  are  very  sure  not  to  be 
scolded. 

Godf.     No,  no,  never  fear.     Good  by. 

Jonas,  (as  he  goes  out.)  The  good  natured  little 
souls. 

SCENE  V. 

Sophia,  Charlotte,  Amelia,  Godfrey. 

Char.  I  am  very  sorry  you  have  deprived  your- 
self of  your  buckles,  master  Godfrey. 

Amelia.     You  have  set  us  a  good  example. 

Godf.  I  only  followed  that  of  Sophia.  I  should 
be  happy  in  the  opportunity  of  doing  a  good  action, 
if  it  had  not  been  furnished  by  the  mean  behaviour 
of  Charles.  With  what  pleasure  I  shall  now  look 
at  my  pinchbeck  buckles ! 


24  LITTLE    FIDDLER. 

SCENE  VI. 

Mr.  Melforl,  Sophia,  Amelia,  Charlotte,   God- 
frey,  Jonas. 

( The  children  get  close  together.  Sophia  and 
Godfrey  cast  a  side  look  at  Jonas,  and  whisper 
each  other.) 

Mr.  M.  {to  the  Misses  Richmond.)  Your  ser- 
vant, ladies  !  I  thank  you  for  the  honour  you  have 
done  my  daughter.  But  give  me  leave  to  hear, 
in  your  presence,  what  this  boy  has  to  say.  He 
was  waiting  for  me  upon  the  stairs,  and  cannot  leave 
me,  he  says,  until  he  has  spoken  to  me  before  you. 
— ( To  Jonas.)    Come,  what  have  you  to  say  ? 

Jonas,  (to  Sophia  and  Godfrey.)  My  good 
young  master  and  miss,  I  beg  you  not  to  be  angry 
with  me :  but  I  cannot  help  speaking,  and  it  would 
be  ill  done  of  me  to  keep  what  you  have  made  me 
take,  without  the  consent  of  your  papa.  I  know 
very  well  that  children  have  nothing  of  their  own  to 
give  away. 

Mr.  M.     What  is  all  this  1 

Jonas.  I  am  going  to  tell  you,  sir.  This  young 
master  called  me  from  his  window  to  come  in  and 
play  upon  my  violin  for  these  ladies.  There  was 
another  little  gentleman  too  along  with  them,  very 
handsome,  but  a  very  ill-natured  rogue. 

Mr.  M.     What !  my  son  1 

Jonas.  I  beg  pardon.  That  word  escaped  me. 
Well ;  I  played  my  best,  what  tunes  I  knew,  and 
this  good  little  company  were  so  kind  as  to  give 
me  a  piece  of  cake  with  a  handkerchief  to  wrap  it 


LITTLE    FIDDLER.  25 

up,  and  almost  a  handful  of  money  besides.  I  do 
not  know  how  much. 

Mr.  M.     Well  ? 

Jonas.  Weil,  that  ill-natured  little  gentleman 
took  away  the  cake  which  I  was  intending  to  carry 
to  my  poor  father,  who  is  blind.  That  I  should  not 
have  minded  ;  but  he  slips  out  of  the  room,  and 
when  I  was  going  away,  quite  overjoyed  with  my 
little  bundle,  he  watches  me  in  the  passage,  takes 
the  handkerchief  with  all  the  money  from  me  by 
force,  and  breaks  my  violin  in  pieces.  Look,  there 
it  is,  (crying*) — All  my  riches,  that  supported  me 
and  my  father. 

Mr.  M.  Is  it  possible  ?  Such  a  malicious  ill-na- 
tured action  ! — What!   my  son? — 

Char.  His  behaviour  in  every  thing  else  makes 
this  very  probable.     Ask  Sophia  herself. 

Mr.  M.  Go,  my  man  ;  do  not  let  it  afflict  you  ; 
I  will  indemnify  you.      But  is  this  all? 

Jonas.  No,  Sir  ;  only  hear  me.  Being  in  such 
trouble,  I  returned  to  tell  these  good  little  gentle- 
folks the  whole  affair.  They  had  not  money 
enough  to  pay  for  the  damage  :  so  this  pretty  miss 
gives  me  her  gold  thimble,  and  this  young  gentle- 
man his  silver  buckles.  I  could  not  possibly  keep 
them  :  my  father  would  have  thought  that  I  had 
stolen  them.  I  knew  you  were  coming  home,  so  I 
waited  to  return  them  to  you,  and  here  they  are. — 
But  I  have  no  fiddle  now.  O  my  fiddle  !  O  my 
poor  father  ! 

Mr.  M.  What  an  account  you  have  given  me  ! 
vol.  2.  3 


26  LITTLE    FIDDLER. 

Is  it  you,  or  you,  my  generous  children,  whom  I 
should  most  admire  ?  Excellent  boy  !  in  extreme 
indigence,  to  lose  all  ;  and  yet,  from  the  fear  of  c'o- 
ing  wrong,  to  run  the  risk  of  letting  a  father  whom 
you  love,  perish  with  hunger. 

Jonas.  Is  it  so  great  a  matter  not  to  be  a  rogue  ? 
No,  no  ;  one  never  thrives  on  ill  gotten  bread.  It 
is  what  my  father  and  mother  have  often  told  me. 
If  you  would  only  please  to  buy  me  another  fiddle, 
that  would  make  amends  for  all.  Whatever  more 
the  thimble  and  buckle  would  have  brought,  God 
will  repay  me. 

Mr.  M.  Your  father  and  you  must  be  endowed 
with  extraordinary  uprightness  of  heart  not  even  to 
suspect  the  depravity  of  others  !  God  will  make 
use  of  me  as  an  instrument  to  impart  his  blessings 
to  you.  You  shall  stay  here,  and  for  the  first  you 
shall  wait  upon  Godfrey.  Afterwards  we  will  see 
what  we  can  do  better  for  you. 

Jonas.  What!  wait  upon  this  little  angel  of  a 
gentleman  !  O,  I  should  be  delighted  (boivs  to  God- 
frey.) But,  no  [sorrowfully)  I  cannGt  leave  my 
father  all  alone.  Without  me,  how  would  he  do  to 
live  1  What !  should  I  be  in  abundance,  and  he  die 
for  want?     O  no. 

Mr.  J/.    Excellent  child  !  and  who  is  your  father  1 

Jonas.  An  old  blind  laborer,  whom  I  supported 
by  playing  on  the  fiddle.  It  is  true,  he  seldom  eats, 
nor  I  neither,  any  thing  else  but  a  piece  of  bread 
with  some  milk.  But  God  always  gives  us  enough 
for  the  day,  and  we  take  no  care  for  the  morrow  : 
he  provides  for  that  also. 


LITTLE    FIDDLER. 


27 


Mr.  31.  Well,  I  will  take  care  of  your  father, 
and,  if  he  chooses,  I  will  get  him  into  an  alms- 
house; where  old  and  infirm  people  are  well  main- 
tained. You  may  go  and  see  him  there  whenever 
you  please. — [Jonas,  after  an  exclamation  of  joy, 
runs  about  the  room  quite  transported.) 

Jonas.  O  goodness!  What,  my  dear  father! 
No ;  that  will  make  him  die  with  joy.  I  cannot 
stop  any  longer,  but  must  go  for  him,  and  bring  him 
here. — (Runs  out.  Sophia  and  Godfrey  take  Mr. 
Melforfs  hands.) 

SCENE    VI. 

Mr.  Melfort,   Sophia,  Amelia,  Charlotte  and 

Godfrey. 

Mr.  M.  O  my  dear  children  !  how  happy  would 
this  day  have  been  to  me,  if,  while  I  admire  the 
generosity  of  your  sentiments,  the  idea  of  my  son's 
unworthiness  did  not  intervene  to  poison  my  happi- 
ness !  But  no,  it  should  not  affect  it.  God  has 
given  me  another  son  in  you,  my  dear  Godfrey.  If 
you  are  not  so  by  birth,  you  are  by  the  ties  of  blood, 
and  by  congenial  worthiness  of  heart.  Yes,  you 
shall  be  my  son. — But  where  is  Charles  1  Go,  seek 
him,  and  bring  him  hitherto  me  immediately.  (God- 
frey goes  out.) 

Soph.  It  is  almost  an  hour  since  we  saw  him. 
While  the  little  boy  was  playing  a  minuet  to  us,  he 
disappeared  with  his  piece  of  cake. 

Godf.  (returning.)  He  wras  seen  going  into  a 
confectioner's  not  far  off.  I  have  told  John  to  go 
forbim. 


28  LITTLE    FIDDLER. 

Mr.  M.  Children,  step  into  my  study.  I  wish 
to  know  what  answer  he  will  have  the  assurance  to 
make  me.  When  I  want  your  testimony,  I  shall 
call  you. 

Char,  and  Amelia.    Then  we  shall  take  our  leave. 

Mr.  M.  No,  my  dears  !  I  will  send  word  to  your 
papa  and  mamma,  that  you  will  spend  the  rest  of 
the  evening  with  us.  Probably  the  generous  little 
Jonas  and  his  old  father  will  be  our  guests  also.  I 
have  occasion  for  something  to  assuage  the  cruel 
wound  that  Charles  has  given  my  heart,  and  1  know 
of  nothing  more  salutary  than  the  conversation  of 
such  amiable  children  as  you. 

Soph,  [listening.)  I  think  I  hear  Charles  com- 
ing.—  {Mr  Melfort  opens  his  study-door.  The 
children  icithdraw.) 

SCENE  VII.     Mr.  Melfort. 

I  have  long  dreaded  a  discovery  of  this  disagree- 
able nature,  but  could  never  have  suspected  him  of 
any  thing  so  horrid.  It  is,  perhaps,  still  not  too 
late  to  correct  his  vices.  Alas  !  why  am  I  obliged  to 
try  a  desperate  remedy. 

Enter  Charles. 

Charles.     What  are  your  commands,  papa  ? 

Mr.  31.  Where  have  you  been  ?  Were  you  not 
in  your  chamber  ? 

Charles.  Our  tutor  is  gone  out.  Godfrey  was 
below  stairs.  So,  after  having  studied  all  the  after- 
noon, I  grew  tired  of  being  alone. 

Mr.  M.    Why  did  you  not  go,  as  well  as  Godfrey, 


LITTLE    FIDDLER. 


29 


and  join  the  little  company   that  I  found  with  your 
sister? 

Charles.  And  so  I  did  :  but  those  misses  treated 
me  so  ill — 

Mr.  Mi     How  1     You  astonish  me. 

Charles.  At  first  they  drank  tea,  but  without 
asking  me  to  have  a  drop.  On  the  contrary,  they 
showed  me  all  the  spite  in  the  world.  Then  God- 
frey picked  up  a  little  beggar  brat  in  the  street,  and 
brought  him  to  play  the  fiddle  to  them.  He  gave 
him  some  of  the  cake  that  was  brought  up  to  them, 
and  me  not  a  bit.  They  danced,  but  not  one  of  the 
ladies  would  dance  with  me,  though  there  were 
three  of  them,  and  no  gentleman  but  Godfrey. 
What  could  I  do  here,  I  went  down  to  the  door  to 
look  at  the  people  passing  by. 

Mr.  M.  Only  to  the  door  ?  What  was  it  then 
that  passed  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  between  a  lit- 
tle fiddler  and  you  1  I  have  been  told  that  you  beat 
him,  and  broke  his  violin,  and  that  he  went  away 
crying. 

Charles.  Yes,  that  is  true,  papa,  and  if  I  had 
not  been  very  good-natured,  I  should  have  got  a 
constable  to  put  him  in  bridewell.  You  shall  hear, 
Sir.  When  I  saw  him  go  out,  I  said  to  myself,  I 
must  give  this  poor  creature  something  too  for  his 
trouble,  for  I  knew  that  Godfrey  had  nothing  of  his 
own,  and  a  beggar  is  but  ill  paid  with  only  a  morsel 
of  cake.  So  I  took  some  money  out  of  my  purse, 
which  I  gave  him,  and  he  drew  out  a  handkerchief 
to  put  it  in.     I  perceived  that  it  was  one  of  my  sis- 


30  LITTLE    FIDDLER. 

ter's  handkerchiefs  ;  you  may  see  the  mark.  I 
begged  him,  very  civilly,  to  return  it,  which  he 
would  not.  So  I  took  him  by  the  collar,  and  we 
struggled  together,  and  by  accident  I  put  my  foot 
upon  his  fiddle. 

Mr.  31.  (with  indignation.)  Eold  your  tongue, 
base  liar !  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  you. 

Charles,  (drawing  near  him  and  going  to  take 
him  by  the  hand.)  Why,  my  dear  papa,  what 
makes  you  angry  ? 

Mr.  M.  Begone,  wicked  creature,  out  of  my 
sight !  you  shock  me.  (He  calls  the  children  from 
the  study.) 

Enter  Sophia,  Amelia,  Charlotte,  Godfrey. 

Mr.  31.  Come  hither,  my  children,  I  will  see 
none  but  those  who  merit  my  affection.  As  for 
you,  quit  my  presence  for  ever.  But  no,  stop. 
You  shall  receive  your  sentence  first.  (To  Sophia 
and  Godfrey.)  You  have  heard  his  charges  against 
you. 

Soph.  Yes,  papa  ;  and  if  it  were  not  necessary 
for  our  own  justification,  I  would  say  not  a  word 
against  him,  for  fear  of  increasing  your  anger. 

Charles.  Do  not  believe  any  thing  that  she  will 
tell  you. 

Mr.  31.  Be  silent.  I  have  already  had  a  proof 
of  your  detestable  falsehood.  Lying  is  the  high 
road  to  theft  and  murder.  You  have  already  com- 
mitted the  first  crime,  and  perhaps  want  only 
strength  to  attempt  the  other.     Go  on,  Sophia. 

Soph.     In  the  first  place  he  has  done  no  business 


LITTLE    FIDDLER. 


31 


at  all  this  afternoon.  It  was  Godfrey  who  wrote 
his  translation  for  him. 

Mr.  M.     Is  this  true  1 

Godf.     I  cannot  deny  it. 

Soph.  Then  he  spilt  a  dish  of  tea  upon  Amelia's 
dress  ;  and  while  we  were  busy  in  wiping  it,  he  re- 
mained at  table,  and  emptied  the  tea-pot.  There 
was  not  a  drop  left  for  us.  These  young  ladies  are 
witnesses  (pointing  to  the  Misses  Richmond.)  As 
to  the  cake 

Mr.  M.  That  is  enough.  All  your  baseness  is 
discovered.  Go  up  to  your  chamber  for  this  day  : 
to-morrow  morning  I  will  put  you  out  of  the  house. 
I  will  give  you  time  enough  to  amend  before  you 
return,  and  if  that  experiment  does  not  succeed, 
there  are  not  wanting  methods  to  dispose  of  incorri- 
gible reprobates  who  disturb  society  by  their  mis- 
deeds. Godfrey,  tell  John  to  see  that  he  keeps  his 
room.  You  will  give  orders  in  the  mean  time,  that 
your  tutor  be  sent  to  me  as  soon  as  he  returns. 

Soph,  and  Godf.  {interceding  for  him.)  Dear 
papa  ! — Dear  uncle  ! 

Mr.  M.  I  will  not  hear  a  word  in  his  favour.  He 
who  is  capable  of  taking  from  the  poor,  by  force, 
the  earnings  of  his  industry,  of  breaking  the  instru- 
ment of  his  livelihood,  and  of  seeking  to  justify  such 
actions  by  falsehood  and  calumny,  should  be  turned 
out  of  the  society  of  men.  I  thank  God  that  he 
has  left  me  still  two  such  excellent  children  as  you.. 
You  shall  be  my  consolation  henceforward,  and  with 
you,  I  will  endeavour  to  make  myself  as  happy  this 
evening  as  the  father  of  so  unprincipled  a  son  can  be. 


MAURICE. 

MY    DEAR    SON, 

Do  not  let  the  news,  which  I  am  going  to 
communicate,  afflict  you  too  much  :  I  wish  I 
could  conceal  it  from  you  ;  but  I  cannot.  Your 
father  is  dangerously  ill  ;  and,  without  a  miracle 
in  his  favour,  we  must  lose  him.  O  heavens  ! 
my  heart  is  ready  to  burst  when  I  think  of  his 
situation.  For  these  six  days  I  have  not  closed 
my  eyes,  and  Ltn  now  so  weak  that  I  can  scarcely 
hold  my  pen.  You  must  come  home  instantly. 
The  servant  who  delivers  you  this  letter  will  re- 
turn with  you.  Your  father  desires  earnestly  to 
see  you.  "  Maurice,  my  dear  Maurice,  if  I  could 
embrace  him  before  I  die ; "  he  has  repeateed  a 
hundred  times  in  the  day.  Would  to  heaven  that 
you  were  here  now  !  However,  do  not  lose  a  mo- 
ment in  packing  up  your  clothes  ;  and  I  have  or- 
dered the  man  to  make  all  possible  expedition. 
Every  moment  will  be  an  age  of  anxiety  to  me,  un- 
til I  clasp  you  in  my  arms.  Adieu,  my  dear  child, 
may  the  Lord  protect  you  from  all  dangers  on 
your  journey  !  I  wait  your  return  with  the  great- 
est impatience,  and  am 

Your  ever  affectionate  mother, 

Cecilia    Lavington. 

Oxford. 

Dear  Cousin, 
I  have  now  no  other  friend  but  you,  to  apply  to, 
and  from  you  alone  I  can  hope  for  comfort  in   a 


MAURICE. 


33 


misfortune  too  weighty  for  me  to  bear.  Heaven 
has  deprived  me  of  what  was  dearest  to  me  on 
earth,  my  beloved  husband.  You  know  how  sin- 
cere and  tender  an  affection  I  bore  him.  This 
day  se'night  he  desired  me  to  send  for  our  son 
from  school.  When  Maurice  was  brought  up  to 
his  bed,  he  stretched  out  his  hand  to  him,  and  had 
scarcely  given  him  his  blessing,  before  he  expired. 
With  him  is  gone  all  the  satisfaction  and  happi- 
ness of  my  life.  You  now  see  me  in  a  situation 
the  most  distressful  and  afflicting  to  a  woman,  and 
a  mother.  Yet,  if  I  suffered  alone,  I  could  bear 
it ;  but  my  poor  son  sighs  by  my  side.  He  is  not 
yet  sensible  of  the  misfortune  of  being  an  orphan. 
It  wounds  my  heart  to  see  him  look  up  to  me  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  while  he  presses  my  hand,  and 
speaks  of  his  father.  None  but  a  mother  can 
have  an  idea  of  so  afflicting  a  sight.  I  think 
at  those  times  that  I  read  in  his  looks  these  mel- 
ancholy words  :  "  It  is  you  alone,  my  dear  moth- 
er, that  must  maintain  me  now."  Wherever  I 
go,  he  is  at  my  side,  and  wipes  the  tears  from  his 
little  eye,  with  my  gown.  Sorrow  stops  my  voice 
when  I  would  comfort  him,  for  the  very  sight  of 
my  child  renews  all  my  affliction.  How  shall  I 
maintain  him  ?  My  poor  husband  has  left  me 
nothing,  and  my  hands  are  too  feeble  to  work. 
To  whom  then  shall  I  look  for  assistance,  but  to 
you  ?  On  you  alone  I  rest  all  my  hopes.  Heaven, 
I  doubt  not,  will  dispose  your  heart  to  relieve  a 
destitute  and  forlorn  widow,  and  to  prove  that  the 
ties  of  blood,  which  unite  us,  are  sacred.      I  give 


34  MAURICE. 

up  my  son  to  your  care.  Whatever  kindness  you 
show  to  him,  I  shall  receive  as  performed  for  my 
sake  and  for  the  memory  of  a  man  who  loved  you. 
All  the  strength  and  spirits  that  I  have  left,  I  will 
exert,  to  gain  myself  a  livelihood  by  working  : 
but  to  bring  up  my  son  properly,  is  beyond  my 
power.  I  give  him  up  therefore  to  you  entirely. 
However  severe  it  may  be  to  part  with  my  child,  I 
must  yield  to  necessity.  In  the  mean  time  I 
comfort  myself  in  the  reflection,  that  I  rely  on  the 
favour  of  a  merciful  God,  and  the  kindness  of  a 
worthy  relation.  Be  to  him  as  a  father,  and  ena- 
ble him  one  day  to  soften  my  afflictions.  I  am 
unable  to  proceed.  My  tears,  which  wet  my  pa- 
per, show  sufficiently  what  my  heart  feels.  You 
have  it  in  your  power  to  determine  my  happiness, 
and  the  well-being  of  my  son.  God  will  forever 
bless  your  liberality  ;  he  will  reward  you,  even  in 
this  world,  for  your  kindness  to  two  unfortunate  re- 
lations. 

I  am,  dear  cousin, 

Your  disconsolate  kinswoman,  &,c. 

Cecilia  Lavington. 
Oxford. 

Madam, 
Yours  of  the  7th  inst.  in  which  you  inform  me 
of  your  huband's  death,  has  given  me  the  sincer- 
est  affliction.  You  may  be  assured,  I  partake  of 
your  grief,  and  feel  still  more  for  your  loss  than 
for  ray  own.  Yet  I  must  confess,  I  cannot  help 
being  a  good  deal  surprised  that  you  think  of  ap- 


MAURICE. 


35 


plying  to  me  alone  for  assistance.     Is  it  absolutely 
necessary  that  your  son  should  have  the  educa- 
tion of  a  scholar,   and  add  another  to  the  number 
of  half-learned  smatterers  that  are  already  in  the 
world  ?      Are  there  not  many  other  professions  in 
which  he  may  render   as  great  services  to  socie- 
ty, and  labour  to  more  advantage  for  his  own  in- 
terest ?     Consider  with  yourself,  how  will  he  be  a- 
ble  to  advance  himself,  without  fortune  or  friends? 
You  know  the  world  too  well,  to  make  it  necessary 
for  me  to  show  that  such  an  attempt  would  be  im- 
practicable.    On  the  other  hand,   it  would  be  un- 
pleasing  to  yourself  to  see  him  chargeable  to  stran- 
gers.     You  speak  of  the  ties  of  blood  ;  but  my 
own    family,    which   is  very    numerous,  puts   me 
more  forcibly  in  mind  of  them  ;  and  I  beg  you  to 
believe  that  it  is  with  great  difficulty  I  can  main- 
tain them   in  a  suitable  manner.     To  load  myself 
with   an  additional   burden,    is   absolutely  out  of 
my  power  :  and  I  am  convinced,  that   upon  more 
mature  reflection,  you  will  dispense  with  my  doing 
so.      All  that  I  can  do,  is,  to  put  your  son  appren- 
tice to  a  mercer  at  Rochester,  a  Mr.  Durant,   with 
whom  I   have   concerns   in  business.     I  promise 
you,  he  shall  be  well  treated   there.     You    may 
send  him  upon  trial   for  some  time  ;    and  if  ap- 
proved, he  will  take  him  without  a  fee.      Consider 
maturely  of  my  offer,  and  let  me  know  your  deter- 
mination and  your  son's.     If  he  resolves  to  go  to 
the  university,  it  is  absolutely  out  of  my  power  to 
maintain  him  there.      I  request  you  to  accept  the 
enclosed  order  for  four  guineas,  as  a  proof  of  my 


36  MAURICE. 

concern  for  your  present  distressed  situation,  and 
to  believe  me,  Madam,  &c. 

London. 

•  •  •  • 

Dear  Sir, 
I  cannot  forget  the  care  that  you  and  Mrs.  Mas- 
ters took  of  me  while  at  your  academy,  though  I 
have  at  present  scarcely  strength  to  write  you 
these  lines  of  acknowledgment.  But  my  mother 
who  sits  by  me  crying,  is  unable  through  grief, 
to  take  pen  in  hand,  and  has  laid  that  task  on  me 
who  am  so  unfit  for  it.  However,  from  remember- 
ing your  constant  kindness  to  me,  I  find  some  sat- 
isfaction in  writing  to  you,  though  I  may  succeed 
but  indifferently.  You  are  already  informed,  I 
suppose,  of  my  father's  death.  Ah  Sir,  what  you 
foretold  me,  is  not  come  to  pass.  You  bid  me  not 
be  uneasy;  that  I  should,  perhaps,  when  I  came 
home,  find  my  father  out  of  danger.  But,  alas ! 
he  is  dead.  My  mother  is  now  a  poor  widow, 
and  I  an  orphan.  I  dreaded  no  less,  as  I 
came  near  our  house.  I  had  fallen  asleep  in  the 
chaise,  and  dreamed  that  my  father  was  in  hea- 
ven ;  and  that  he  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  spoke 
to  me.  At  this  I  awoke,  and  in  waking,  seemed 
to  hear  the  passing-bell  toll.  Yet  we  were  not 
near  the  house,  and  had  more  than  three  miles  to 
go.  At  last,  when  I  arrived,  my  mother  was  at  our 
door  waiting  for  me,  all  in  tears.  She  kissed  me, 
and  took  me  up  stairs  to  my  father,  who  was  in 
bed,  and  almost  speechless.  When  I  kissed  him, 
oh  dear  !  how  I  cried  and  sobbed.      At   this  he 


MAURICE.  37 

opened  his  eyes,  and  seeing  me,  laid  his  hand  up- 
on my  head,  and  gave  me  his  blessing;  but  in  so 
faint  a  voice,  as  scarcely  to  be  heard.  Ah  !  you 
cannot  imagine  how  my  mother  and  I  cried.  All 
his  neighbours  and  acquaintance  were  in  tears  too 
at  his  funeral;  but  mother  and  I  more  than  any 
body.  I  begin  to  eat  and  drink  a  little,  but  my 
mother  has  absolutely  taken  no  nourishment,  so 
that  she  is  as  pale  as  death  ;  and  I  beg  of  her  con- 
tinually not  to  die,  for  then  I  do  not  know  what 
would  become  of  me  in  this  world.  Ah  !  dear 
Sir,  you  may  imagine  how  great  a  trouble  it  is  to 
mother  and  me,  that  I  am  not  able  to  continue  my 
education.  But  it  cannot  be  otherwise,  and  I 
must  be  content.  My  mother  has  written  to  her 
cousin  in  London,  who  is  a  rich  merchant,  to  re- 
quest him  to  maintain  me  at  school ;  but  he  will 
not,  and  he  says  that  I  shall  be  no  better  than  a 
half-learned  smatterer.  For  my  part,  I  think,  I 
might  have  learning  enough,  if  my  mother  had 
the  tenth  pait  of  his  money.  But  no  ;  1  must  go 
apprentice  to  Mr.  Durant,  the  mercer,  at  Roch- 
ester. I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  that  grieves 
me.  Mother  strives  to  comfort  me,  and  tells  me 
that  it  is  a  reputable  line  of  business,  and  that  I 
may  make  a  fortune,  by  following  it  with  applica- 
tion. But  what  does  all  this  signify,  when  one  dis- 
likes it?  You  know,  dear  sir,  that  learning  was  all 
to  me  ;  I  wished  to  be  as  good  a  scholar  and  di- 
vine, as  my  father.  Before,  I  had  always  a  book 
in  my  hand  ;  now  I  shall  be  employed  measur- 
vol.  2.  4 


38  MAURICE. 

ing  silks  with  a  yard.  But  I  must  hold  my  tongue, 
since  it  cannot  be  otherwise.  Dear  Sir,  I  wish 
you  happiness,  and  shall  always  think  of  you.  I 
hope,  too  that  you  will  not  forget  me  ;  and  thank 
you  again  for  your  kind  treatment  of  me.  I  sup- 
pose MrDurant  will  sometimes  take  me  to  London, 
so  that  as  I  pass  there  in  my  way  to  Rochester,  I 
shall  go  and  see  you  and  Mrs.  Masters  ;  and  if  ev- 
er I  get  into  great  business,  you  shall  take  what- 
ever you  please  in  my  shop,  without  paying  me  a 
farthing.  Only  try.  You  shall  see.  Mean 
time  I  am,  and  ever  shall  be, 

Dear  Sir,  (as  you  used  to  call  me)  your  little 
friend,  Maurice   Lavington. 

SCENE  I.     Oxford. 

Maurice,  Mrs.  Lavington. 

Mau.  Ah,  mother  !   the  stage  is  ready  to  set  off. 

Mrs.L.  (in  tears)  My  dear  child,  are  you  going 
then  to  leave  me  ? 

Mau.  Pray, mother,  do  not  cry  so,  I  shall  be  dull 
all  the  journey.  Where  are  my  gloves  ?  O,  they 
are  on  my  hands.     I  do  not  know  what  I  am  doing. 

Mrs.  L.  What  pain  it  is  to  part  with  you  !  I  will 
accompany  you,  at  least  a  little  way  out  of  town. 

Mau.  Nay,  dear  mother,  you  are  already  so  ill, 
and  so  weak  ! 

Mrs.  L.  It  is  but  half  a  mile,  my  dear. 

Mau.  But  you  know,  the  doctor  says  that  you 
must  take  care  of  yourself.  If  you  were  to  come 
home   worse,  and  be  obliged,  like  my  father,  to 


MAURICE.  39 

take  to  your  bed,  and  die,  I  should  be  the  cause  of 
it.     No,  you  must  not  stir  out,  or  else  I'll  not  go. 

Mrs.  L.  Well,  my  dear  child,  then  I  will  stay. 

Mau.  Yes,  mother,  do  not  move  out,  and  when 
I  am  gone,  lie  down  and  try  to  sleep. 

31rs.  L.  O,  I  wish  I  could. 

Mau.  Good  by,  good  by,  mother. 

Mrs.  L.  God  bless  you,  and  watch  over  you,  my 
dear  child.  Be  good,  honest  and  industrious,  and 
make  your  mother  happy. 

Mau.  You  shall  see,  mother;  you  shall  see  I 
will  make  you  happy. 

Mrs.  L.  Write  to  me  regularly,  at  least  once  a 
fortnight. 

Mau.  Yes,  every  week,  mother  ;  and  will  you 
write  to  me  too  1 

Mrs.  L.  Can  you  ask  that  ?  I  shall  now  have  no 
other  pleasure  upon  earth.  But  shall  we  ever  see 
each  other  again  in  this  world  1 

Mau.  O,  yes;  we  shall  see  each  other  again.  I 
will  take  care  to  behave  so  well  that  I  will  get 
leave  to  come  and  see  you  in  six  months.  But, 
mother,  the  stage  is  going  off.     I  must  leave  you. 

Mrs.  L.  One  kiss  more,  my  dear  child,  Faie- 
well.     ( They  wave  their  hands  until  out  of  sight.) 

SCENE  II.     Rochester. 

Mr.  Durant,  Maurice. 

Mr.  D.  What  do  you  bring  me  there,  my  little 
gentleman  1 

Mau.  A  letter,  Sir.  My  name  is  Lavington.  I 
suppose  you  know  what  it  concerns. 


40  MAURICE. 

Mr.  D.  O,  you  are  little  Lavington.  I  am 
glad  to  see  you.  I  like  your  face  very  well.  Have 
you  a  taste  for  business  ? 

Mau.  (sighing.)    Why  yes,  sir. 

Mr.  D.  You  have  been  some  time  at  school  ; 
can  you  read  1 

Mau.  Yes,  sir,  I  could  read  when  I  was  only 
five  years  old  ;  and  now  I  am  ten. 

Mr.  D.  Then  your  father  must  have  begun 
pretty  early  with  you.  Can  you  write,  too,  and 
cast  accounts  1    How  much  is  six  times  8  1 

Mau.  48;  and  six  times  48  make  288;  and  6 
times  288  make — stop  a  moment — make  1728: 
and  add  103  to  that,  it  makes  1833,  exactly  the 
present  year  of  our  Lord. 

Mr.  D.  How  1  why  you  cast  accounts  like  a 
banker.  1  shall  be  glad  to  have  so  clever  a  little 
boy  behind  my  counter. 

Mau.  I  hope,  sir,  I  shall  give  you  satisfaction. 

Mr.  D.  According  as  you  behave  yourself. 

Mau.  Sir,  I  ask  no  better. 

Mr.  D.  I  have  no  doubt  but  we  shall  be  good 
friends. 

Mau.  O  sir  !  you  shall  never  have  reason  to  find 
fault  with  me.  1  love  my  mother  too  well  to  run 
the  risk  of  grieving  her. 

Mr.  D.  Come  then,  I  will  introduce  you  to  my 
wife  and  children.  I  have  two,  much  about  your 
age. 

Mau.  I  hope,  sir,  to  gain  the  regard  of  all  your 
family. 


MAURICE. 


SCENE  III. 


41 


Lady  Abberville,  Maurice. 

Mau.  {carrying  a  piece  of  satin  rolled  vp.) 
Your  servant,  madam.  Mr.  Durant  gives  his  re- 
spects to  your  ladyship,  and  sends  the  twelve  yards 
of  satin,  of  the  pattern  that  you  showed  him.  You 
know  the  price,  madam  1 

Lady  A.  He  asked  me  thirteen  shillings  at  the 
first  word.     That  is  something  dear. 

Mau.  Have  you  a  measure  in  the  house,  madam  1 

Lady  A.  Mr.  Durant  is  an  honest  man.  I  never 
measure  after  him.     How  much  does  it  come  to? 

Mau.  11.  16s.  madam. 

Lady  A.  That  is  a  good  deal  of  money.  Has 
he  ordered  you  to  receive  it? 

Mau.  That  is  as  your  ladyship  pleases. 

Lady  A.  Well,  there  are  71.  16s.  1  shall  call  on 
him  for  a  receipt  ;  but  if  I  was  disposed  to  cheapen, 
cannot  you  abate  me  something  ? 

Mau.  Yes,  madam.  Mr.  Durant  told  me  that  I 
should  abate  a  shilling  a  yard. 

Lady  A.  Well,  my  little  boy,  that  is  very  hon- 
est. I  am  perfectly  v/ell  pleased  with  your  sincer- 
ity.    Let  me  see;  that  makes  twelve  shillings. 

Mau.  Yes,  madam  ;  I  have  twelve  shillings  to 
return  you. 

Lady  A.  Keep  them  yourself,  my  little  friend. 
This  is  my  birth-day,  and  I  will  make  you  a  pres- 
ent of  them. 

4* 


42  MAURICE. 

Mau.  Madam,  I  beg  pardon,  I  cannot  take  them. 

Lady  A.  You  must,  it  is  my  property,  and  I 
give  it  you. 

Mau.    Perhaps  Mr.  Durant  would  take  it  amiss. 

Lady  A.  That  is  my  concern.  I  shall  make 
that  up. 

Mau.  Madam,  I  return  you  a  thousand  thanks. 
This  money  shnll  not  stay  long  in  my  pocket.  I 
will  send  it  off  directly  to  my  mother,  and  mention 
your  ladyship  to  her  in  my  letter.  I  shall  go  and 
write  it  immediately. 

Lady  A.  No,  no  ;  I  must  not  let  you  go  so  fast. 
I  see  that  we  have  a  good  deal  to  say  to  each  other. 
Tell  me  in  the  first  place  who  is  your  mother,  and 
where  does  she  live? 

Mau.  Ah  !  my  poor  mother  is  widow  to  a  cler- 
gyman of  Oxford.  My  father  has  been  dead  these 
two  months.  He  was  too  charitable  to  the  poor  to 
leave  much  money  behind  him.  He  kept  me  at 
school  for  three  years  near  London  ;  but  I  was  sent 
home  a  little  before  he  died,  because  he  wished  to 
see  me  once  more.  And  as  it  was  not  in  my 
mother's  power  to  continue  my  education,  her 
kinsman  sent  me  to  be  apprentice  to  Mr.  Durant 
the  mercer.  I  am  with  him  upon  trial.  But  if  my 
relation,  who  is  so  rich,  had  thought  proper,  I 
should  have  gone  to  the  university  and  taken  my 
degrees.  I  should  have  been  happy  to  follow  my 
studies,  and  to  become  one  day  a  great  scholar.  I 
was  always  the  foremost  in  my  class,  and  my  mas- 
ters were  very  fond  of  me.  The  next  time  that 
your   ladyship  shall   have  occasion  for  any  thing 


MAURICE.  43 

from  us,  I  will  show  you  a  letter  from  our  head- 
master, that  I  received  a  week  ago.  You  will  see 
by  it  how  fond  he  was  of  me.  -Aye,  and  he  says 
he  will  be  fond  of  me  as  long  as  he  lives. 

Lady  A.  I  do  not  doubt  it,  my  good  child.  You 
have  already  made  me  very  fond  of  you,  though 
this  is  the  first  time  that  I  ever  have  seen  you. 
But  tell  me  ;  would  you  be  glad  to  go  from  behind 
the  co'jnter,  and  return  to  school  ? 

Mau.  Would  it  were  possible.  But  my  mother  can- 
not do  it  ;  she  has  not  money  enough,  and  school- 
ing is  expensive. 

Lady  A.  Yes  :  but  if  your  mother  has  not,  there 
are  many  people  in  the  world  that  have  more  than 
enough.  What  would  you  say  if  I  were  to  send 
you  to  a  geotleman  who  should  examine  you,  to 
see  if  you  have  made  good  use  of  the  time  that  you 
have  spent  at  school,  and  are  likely  to  make  a  pro- 
gress, if  you  should  return  thither  ? 

Mau.  O  madam,  how  happy  should  I  be  !  pray 
send  me  to  the  gentleman  directly.  You  shall  see 
what  he  will  say  of  me.  And  then  I  may  learn 
what  I  have  not  yet  had  time  to  know. 

Lady  A.  Do  you  know  the  principal  academy 
of  this  town  1 

Mau.  O,  yes,  madam.  I  have  often  sighed  as  1 
passed  by  the  door. 

Lady  A.  Well ;  stay  a  moment.  (She  sits  be- 
fore the  bureau,  writes  a  letter,  and  gives  it  to  Mau- 
rice.) There,  run  to  the  academy,  and  ask  for  the 
master.     You   must  speak  to  himself.     You  will 


44  MAURICE. 

give  my  compliments  to  him,  and  request  him  to 
send  a  line  in  answer  to  my  note. 

Man.  But,  madam,  I  am  in  a  hurry  to  send  these 
twelve  shillings  to  my  mother. 

Lady  A,  You  can  wait  till  to-morrow.  Perhaps 
you  may  have  still  better  news  to  send  her. 

Mau.  I  will  first,  madam,  carry  your  letter,  and 
then  hasten  to  Mr.  Durant,  who  waits  for  me. 

Lady  A.    Take  care  not  to  go  astray. 

Mau.  O,  I  shall  find  my  way.  I  wish  your  lady- 
ship good  morning.  In  less  than  half  an  hour  the 
master  of  the  academy  shall  have  your  letter.  I 
shall  fly  to  him  like  a  bird. 

SCENE  IV.     Rochester. 

The  Master  of  the  Academy ,  Maurice. 

Mau.  Sir,  I  have  a  note  for  you  from  Lady 


0  dear,  I  have  forgot  her  name.  But  I  will  run 
back  to  her  to  know  it. 

Master.     There  is  no  occasion  for  that,  child. 

1  suppose  the  lady's  name  is  to  the  note.  (He 
opens ,  and  looks  at  the  bottom.)  Lady  Abberville  ! 
O,  it  is  a  hand  that  I  know  very  well.   (Reads.) 

"  Sir,  The  child  that  I  send  to  you  is  a  poor  or- 
phan. His  father  is  lately  dead,  and  his  mother 
has  been  under  the  necessity  of  taking  him  from 
school,  in  order  to  put  him  apprentice.  He  seems, 
however  to  have  a  strong  desire  for  learning:; 
therefore  I  beg,  as  a  favour,  that  you  will  have  the 
goodness  to  examine  him,  and  if  you  form  any 
hopes  of  him,  I  shall  charge  myself  with  his  educa- 


MAURICE.  4o 

tion.  This  being  my  birth-day,  puts  me  in  mind  of 
the  duty  to  which  we  are  born,  that  of  doing  good  to 
our  fellow  creatures  ;  and  this  child  seems  to  have 
been  sent  by  heaven  to  be  the  object  of  it.  I  re- 
quest you  to  give  me  your  opinion  of  him,  and  am, 
sir,  &,c." 

Take  a  seat,  my  little  man.  I  shall  be  at  leisure 
in  a  minute.     I  am  in  haste  to  finish  a  letter. 

Mau.  O  sir,  what  fine  books  you  have  there  !  it 
is  a  long  time  since  I  have  looked  into  any.  Will 
you  please  let  me  open  one  while  you  write? 

Mas.  With  all  my  heart,  my  dear. 

Mau.  Ha  !  this  is  Homer.  But  it  is  in  Greek. 
It  is  too  hard  for  me.  I  never  read  it,  but  in  En- 
glish. 

Mas.  What,  have  you  read  Homer !  And  what 
do  you  think  of  him  1 

Mau.  He  is  full  of  fine  passages,  and  especially 
of  beautiful  similes.  Only  I  wish  that  Achilles 
had  not  been  so  passionate  and  stubborn. 

Mas.  What  instances  of  passion  and  stubborn- 
ness do  you  find  in  him  1 

Mau.  Was  it  well  done  of  him  to  leave  the 
Greeks  in  distress  1  Was  it  their  fault,  if  he  quar- 
relled with  Agamemnon  ?  They  had  done  him  no 
wrong.  Should  not  he  have  suffered  himself  to  be 
persuaded,  when  the  deputies  came  to  make  sub- 
mission to  him  in  his  tent  1  But  no,  he  remains 
immoveable  as  a  rock.  I  should  not  have  let  them 
entreat  me  so  long.  I  should  have  followed  them 
at  the  first  wora. 

Mas.  Then  you  are  very  good-natured. 


46  MAURICE. 

Mau.  We  should  be  so  towards  all  men,  and  es- 
pecially to  our  countrymen.  O  you  have  a  Sopho- 
cles too.  The  tragedy  of  Philoctetes,  I  believe,  is 
by  him.  I  have  read  it  in  English.  It  is  a  very 
moving  play.  But  I'll  tell  you,  sir,  what  I  liked 
best  in  it. 

Mas.  I  should  be  glad  to  know. 

Mau.  It  is  a  young  Grecian — What  is  his  name  ? 

Mas.  Neoptolemus. 

Mau.  Yes,  yes;  Neoptolemus.  It  is  when  he 
comes  back  and  brings  Philoctetes  his  bow  and 
arrows.  I  think  that  I  should  have  done  the  same. 
But  I  beg  pardon,  sir  ;  perhaps  my  talk  grows  tire- 
some to  you. 

Mas.  Not  at  all.  I  listen  to  you  with  pleasure. 
Besides,  my  letter  is  finished. 

Mau.  Then,  sir,  I  beg  you  will  tell  me  what  fine 
book  of  prints  that  is,  that  lies  open  on  your  desk  1 

Mas.  It  is  a  collection  of  engravings  from  the 
finest  paintings  in  the  gallery  at  Florence. 

Mau.  That  is  Jupiter  ;  I  know  him. 

Mas.  How  do  you  like  him  1 

Mau.  I  like  his  picture  very  well,  but  not  Mr. 
Jupiter. 

Mas.  Why  not  ? 

Mau.  Because  he  was  an  odious  character.  I 
do  not  know  how  the  Greeks  and  Romans  could  be 
such  fools  as  to  worship  him.  He  was  quite  a  lib- 
ertine, and  always  quarrelling  with  Juno.  Is  that 
acting  like  a  god  1 

Mas.  You  are  right.  He  was  an  improper  and 
contemptible  object  of  worship.     However,  noth- 


MAURICE.  47 

ing  has  been  handed  down  to  us  concerning  him, 
but  the  imaginations  of  the  vulgar  ;  and  you  know 
that  the  people  have  always  been  blind  and  super- 
stitious. 

Mau.  Why  our  peasants  now-a-days  have  more 
sense.  Only  imagine,  sir,  the  clergyman  of  a  par- 
ish going  into  the  pulpit,  and  preaching  that  God 
has  a  wife,  whom  he  deceives  and  scolds  every 
day.  His  parishioners  would  not  believe  a  word 
of  it. 

Mas.  How  comes  it  that  the  vulgar  are  now 
more  sensible  than  in  former  times  1 

Mau.  From  the  light  of  the  gospel.  There 
every  thing  shows  a  just  and  good  God.  If  I  had 
lived  in  Greece,  and  had  possessed  such  a  book, 
they  would  never  have  worshipped  any  other  than 
the  God  we  worship. 

Mas.  Give  me  your  hand,  my  boy  ;  what  is  your 
name  1 

Mau.  Maurice  Lavington. 

Mas.  Indeed,  my  dear  Maurice,  it  would  be  a 
pity  that  you  should  pass  your  life  behind  a  coun- 
ter.    You  must  apply  yourself  to  learning  again. 

Mau.  I  should  like  that  very  well,  if  it  was  in  my 
power. 

Mas.  1  will  give  you  my  answer  to  Lady  Ab- 
berville. 

Mau.  Sir,  I  shall  take  it  with  pleasure.  But  she 
requests  you,  sir,  I  believe,  to  have  the  kindness 
to  examine  me. 

Mas.  I  have  done  that  already.  I  can  judge  of 
your  understanding,  and  your  heart.     Perhaps  I 


48  MAURICE. 

may  have  the  pleasure  of  contributing  to  procure 
you  a  more  happy  lot.  Amuse  yourself  in  looking 
over  these  prints,  while  I  write  my  answer. 

Mau.  Or  rather,  sir,  oblige  me  with  a  pen  and 
some  paper.     I  will  write  too. 

Mas.  To  your  benefactress? 

Mau.  No,  sir ;  to  another  person. 

Mas.  May  not  I  know  to  whom  ? 

Mau.  When  my  letter  is  finished,  sir,  you  shall 
see  it. 

Mas.  I  long  to  have  a  view  of  it.     ( They  both 
sit  down.     Maurice  writes  the  following  letter.) 

"  Dear  sir,  I  thank  you  a  thousand  times  for  your 
kindness  in  taking  notice  of  me,  and  in  writing  to 
Lady  Abberville.  I  should  be  very  happy  to  return 
to  my  former  school,  where  every  body  loves  me  ; 
but  since  you  will  be  the  occasion  of  my  happiness, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  enjoy  it  under  your  eye.  If  I  am 
so  lucky  as  to  be  admitted  into  your  academy,  1 
will  love  you  with  all  my  heart.  I  hope  I  shall  be 
diligent  and  well  behaved,  and  learn  every  thing 
that  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  teach  me.  I  hard- 
ly dare  hope  that  it  will  be  so.  That  depends  on 
the  will  of  Providence,  and  yours.  But  if  J  re- 
main with  Mr.  Durant,  you  will  not  refuse  me  the 
pleasure  of  coming  to  see  you  now  and  then,  and  of 
conversing  a  little  with  you,  and  reading  your  fine 
books  ;  otherwise  I  shall  soon  forget  all  that  I  have 
learned  at  school,  and  I  should  be  sorry  for  that, 
though  it  is  not  much.  I  hope,  dear  sir,  you  will 
have  the  goodness  to  oblige  me,  and  I  will  let  my 
mother  know  it,  to  comfort  her  sorrows  ;  for  she  is 


MAURICE.  49 

very  fond  of  me,  and  I  too  of  her.  Perhaps  one 
day  or  other " 

Mas.  Well,  Maurice,  is  your  letter  finished  1 

Mau.  No,  sir,  not  quite.  I  have  more  to  say 
than  you  have.     But  there,  sir,  read  it,  such  as  it  is. 

Mas.  How  is  this  ?  Why  it  is  addressed  to  me! 
Well,  this  is  charming.  No,  my  good  little  Mau- 
rice, you  shall  not  remain  at  Mr.  Durant's,  but 
shall  come  to  me,  if  you  like  it  better.  You  will 
go  now  to  Lady  Abberville.  Give  her  this  note, 
with  my  respects,  and  let  me  know  what  she  says. 

Mau.  O  dear  !  shall  I  be  so  happy  ! 

Mas.  Go,  and  heaven  befriend  you  ! 

Mau.  O,  I  shall  run,  and  be  back  again  direct- 
ly !     (Bowing  to  the  master.)     Your  servant,  Sir. 

SCENE   V.     Rochester. 

Lady   Abberville,  Maurice. 

Lady  A.  Well,  Maurice,  do  you  bring  me  an 
answer  ? 

Mau.  Yes,  madam  ;  here  it  is. 

Lady  A.  I  am  curious  to  know  what  it  says  ; 
nothing  very  favourable,  I  am  afraid. 

Mau.  O,  nothing  unfavourable  to  me,  madam,  I 
am  sure. 

Lady  A.     (Reads  to  herself.) 

"  Madam,  you  could  not  give  me  more  sensible 
pleasure  than  I  felt  in  the  conversation  of  this 
amiable  child.  His  looks,  full  of  ingenuous  inno- 
cence ;  the  lively  spirit  that  appears  in  his  eyes,  and 

vol.  2.        5 


50  MAURICE. 

animates  his  discourse,  have  warmly  attached  me 
to  him.  To  shine  as  a  man  of  letters,  is  more  suit- 
able to  his  genius,  than  to  pursue  the  line  to  which 
his  father's  death  and  the  poverty  of  his  family  had 
destined  him.  I  congratulate  you,  madam,  that 
you  chose,  for  the  object  of  your  generosity,  a  child 
of  so  fair  hopes.  Heaven  seems  to  have  thrown 
him  in  your  way  for  that  purpose.  I  am  strongly 
persuaded  that  his  behaviour  and  sentiments  will 
never  give  you  cause  to  repent,  and  shall  esteem 
myself  very  happy,  if,  by  my  cares,  I  can  promote 
your  generous  intentions. 

I  have  the  honour  to 'be,  &c." 

Lady  A.  The  master  seems  to  be  only  half  sat- 
isfied with  you. 

Mau.  O,  madam,  he  is  quite  satisfied.  He  told 
me  so,  and  I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes. 

Lady  A.  Aye  1  can  you  see  it  there,  my  little 
cunning  man  1  But  to  speak  seriously,  if  there 
was  a  person  that  would  take  the  charge  of  your 
maintenance  and  education,  what  would  you  do  for 
that  person  1 

Mau.  What  would  I  do  1  I  hardly  know.  I  can 
do  nothing  of  myself,  but  I  would  pray  for  that 
person  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  both  day  and 
night. 

Lady  A.  Then  you  shall  pray  for  me,  my  dear 
child,  as  for  your  second  mother. 

Mau.  Will  you  be  my  mother  ? 

Lady  A.  Yes,  I  will.  Your  father  is  dead  .1 
will  fill  his  place,  and  do  every  thing  for  you  that 


MAURICE.  51 

he  would.  You  shall  go  to  your  learning  again, 
and  nothing  shall  be  wanting  to  your  education. 

Mau.  O  dear,  my  good  mother,  I  can  hardly 
speak  for  joy. 

Lady  A.  If  you  love  me,  you  will  never  call  me 
any  thing  but  mother,  remember. 

Mau.  O,  yes,  mother.    I  am  as  happy  as  a  king. 

Lady  A.  Come,  be  composed,  and  let  us  take  a 
walk  in  the  garden.  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you  of  your  mother. 

SCENE  VI.     Rochester. 
Mr.  Durant,  Maurice. 

Mr.  D.  Where  have  you  been,  so  long  ? 

Mau.  O,  Mr.  Durant,  if  you  knew — 

Mr.  D.  Knew  !  I  know  that  you  should  not  be 
so  long  on  an  errand.  Don't  let  this  be  the  case 
another  time.  What !  could  not  you  find  Lady  Ab- 
berville  at  home  1 

Mau.  Yes,  sir,'I  found  her,  and  I  found  her  a 
second  mother  to  me. 

Mr.  D.  What  stuff  is  this  1     Are  you  mad  ? 

Mau.  No,  sir,  but  I  am  going  to  my  learning 
again.  I  shall  be  put  to  an  academy  in  a  few  days, 
and  my  mother,  Lady  Abberville,  will  come  to-mor- 
row, and  speak  to  y6u  about  it. 

Mr.  D.  What,  do  you  not  choose  to  stay  with 
me,  then  1 

Mau.  Why,  sir,  I  like  learning  and  study  better 
than  business. 

Mr.  D.  So,  then,  you  are  only  come  hither,  to 
go  away  again.     You  have  deceived  me. 


52  MAURICE. 

Mau.  No,  sir,  I  should  be  very  sorry.  I  had 
not  a  thought  of  going,  and  could  have  staid  here 
contentedly.  But  suppose  yourself  in  my  place 
for  a  moment.  If  my  father  had  not  died,  I  should 
not  have  quitted  school  to  live  here.  A  worthy 
lady  acts  to  me  like  a  parent,  and  offers  to  put  me 
to  school  again  :  is  it  a  fault  in  me  to  accept  her 
ladyship's  offer  1 

Mr.  D.  Well,  you  are  only  upon  trial  here,  it  is 
true,  and  your  choice  is  free.  You  are  very  right. 
However,  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  you,  for  I  began 
to  be  fond  of  you,  and  now  I  shall  grieve  to  part 
with  you.     (Goes  out.) 

Mau.  Mr.  Durant  is  something  blunt,  but  a  very 
worthy  man.  I  shall  be  sorry  to  leave  him.  But 
I  must  write  to  mother.  O,  how  happy  will  she 
be  on  reading  my  letter !  I  wish  that  she  had  it 
now  in  her  hands,  and  that  I  were  by  her  side  the 
next  moment.     (He  begins  to  write.) 

"  Dear  mother,  Joy  !  joy  !  you  are  now  free  from 
all  trouble,  and  I  too.  Do  not,  however,  let  tears 
of  joy  hinder  you  from  reading  my  letter.  This  is 
the  story  of  my  happiness.  Mr,  Durant  sent  me 
this  morning  to  carry  some  satin  to  Lady  Abber- 
ville.  Oh  !  an  excellent  lady  !  Ah  !  if  you  were 
here  now  !  but  you  do  know,  mother,  that  you  are 
to  be  here  before  a  week?  she  will  give  you  an 
apartment  in  her  house,  and  you  will  live  with  her 
and  I  shall  go  to  school,  and  shall  come  to  see  you 
whenever  you  choose.  Oh  !  that  will  be  a  happi- 
ness !  You  remember  for  all  that,  how  you  cried 


MAURICE.  53 

when  I  was  leaving  you  ?  You  said  that  you  kiss- 
ed me,  perhaps  for  the  last  time.  I  hope  now,  you 
will  never  have  that  to  fear  again.  My  mother  is 
to  send  you  money  for  the  journey,  for  she  is  as 
much  my  mother  as  you  are,  and  I  am  very  sure 
that  you  will  not  be  angry  at  that.  All  the  money, 
however,  that  you  receive  in  this  parcel,  is  not 
from  her,  there  are  twelve  shillings  from  me.  She 
gave  them  to  me,  and  I  send  them  to  you.  Make 
haste  to  get  every  thing  in  readiness  for  your  jour- 
ney hither;  the  sooner  you  come,  the  happier  we 
shall  be.  I  have  spoken  so  well  of  you  to  the  lady, 
that  she  wishes  to  see  you  almost  as  much  as  I  do. 
Set  out,  set  out ;  I  shall  watch  the  coming  of  every 
stage,  to  tell  you  the  whole  story,  before  you  see 
her,  though  I  suppose  she  tells  it  to  you  herself  in 
the  letter  that  she  writes  to  you  to-day.  I  have  not 
time  to  add  more,  for  I  should  be  afraid  that  my  let- 
ter would  be  too  late,  if  I  wrote  all  that  I  have  to  say. 
I  am,  dear  mother,  &,c." 


"  Madam,  how  shall  I  find  words  to  express  to 
you  my  joy  and  gratitude  !  Gracious  heaven  !  my 
misfortunes  are  then  at  an  end,  I  am  happy,  and 
my  child  also,  and  to  you  we  owe  that  we  are  so. 
How  shall  I  be  able  to  bear  so  sudden  an  elevation 
from  an  abyss  of  misery  to  the  summit  of  joy  !  I 
have  only  tears  to  express  what  I  feel,  and  am 
sorry  that  I  cannot  give  you  even  this  testimony  of 
my  gratitude,  personally,  at  this  moment.  You 
5* 


54  THE  PARRICIDE. 

have  wished  to  be  a  mother,  therefore  you  may, 
perhaps,  form  an  idea  of  my  happiness  ;  as  for  me,  I 
want  words  to  express  it,  and  I  shall  want  them 
perhaps,  still  more  when  I  for  the  first  time  see  my 
son  placed  between  us  both,  and  our  arms  inter- 
mingled in  embracing  him.  But  you  will  under- 
stand my  silence,  which  the  ardor  and  sincerity  of 
my  attachment  to  you  shall  perfectly  explain  every 
moment  of  my  life. 

Oxford.  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  &c." 


THE  PARRICIDE. 

What  dreadful  weather  !  I  perish  with  cold, 
and  have  no  shelter  against  the  bitter  winds;  no 
bed  to  warm  my  benumbed  limbs.  I  am  old,  and 
my  strength  is  exhausted  by  labour.  Unnatural 
son  !  I  gave  you  life  ;  I  nourished  you,  and  took 
care  of  your  weak  and  sickly  infancy.  When  I 
saw  you  suffer  through  illness,  my  tears  fell  upon 
your  cheeks.  You  loved  me  at  that  time,  and 
would  say,  while  you  caressed  me,  "  Papa,  what 
makes  you  cry  1  lam  not  sick  now.  Do  not  be 
troubled.  See,  I  am  quite  well."  You  raised 
yourself  up  in  your  bed  ;  your  little  hands  would 
play  in  my  hair,  and  you  would  say  again,  '*  Do 
not  grieve  any  more,  I  am  cured."  And  as  you 
spoke  the  words,  you  would  fall  down  again 
through  weakness.  You  would  strive  to  speak  but 
could  not. 


THE  PARRICIDE.  55 

At  last,  however,  your  body  grew  strong  ;  you 
became  hale  and  robust,  and  you  should  have  been 
the  prop  of  my  old  age.  I  laboured  all  my  life 
for  you,  and  now  you  shut  me  out  of  your  house 
in  the  midst  of  wind  and  snow.  "  We  cannot  live 
together  any  longer,  father,"  said  you  to  me  in 
your  fury.  And  why  not,  my  son  1  What  have  I 
done  to  you?  I  have  exhorted  you  to  virtue,  that 
is  all  my  crime.  When  I  saw  you  spend  in  intem- 
perance the  earnings  of  sixty  years'  labour,  the  for- 
tune of  which  1  willingly  stripped  myself  to  en- 
rich you,  I  pointed  out  your  danger  to  you.'  God 
is  my  witness,  that  I  was  more  anxious  on  your  ac- 
count than  on  my  own.  Was  I  not  silent  long  e- 
nough,  for  fear  of  troubling  you  1  But  my  silence 
and  my  sorrow,  which  I  strove  to  hide,  made  no 
impression  on  you.  I  was  then  obliged  to  speak. 
I  thought  it  my  duty  then  to  resume  the  preroga- 
tive of  a  father  :  yet  my  authority  was  tempered 
with  mildness.  My  discourse  was  tender  as  it  was 
earnest.  I  spoke  to  you  of  your  mother,  who 
died  through  grief  on  account  of  your  disorderly 
life  ;  I  spoke  to  you  of  myself,  whom  the  same 
cause  would  probably  send  to  my  grave.  I  show- 
ed you  my  aged  cheek,  furrowed  with  the  tears 
that  you  have  made  me  shed.  I  showed  you  my 
grey  hairs,  made  so  through  anguish  and  sorrow. 
I  opened  rny  arms  to  invite  you  to  my  bosom.  I 
should  have  fallen  on  my  knees  to  you,  if  your  fa- 
ther even  in  that  humble  posture,  could  have  sof- 
tened you.  And  you,  my  son — I  can  scarcely  be- 
lieve it  yet — you  came  towards  me  with  a  threat- 


56  THE    PARRICIDE. 

ening  air  ;  your  arm  was  stretched  out,  and  your 
gate  shut  against  me. 

You  my  son  1  You  are  no  longer  so.  Why  do 
my  bowels  still  feel  the  yearnings  of  a  father  to- 
wards you  1  I  am  tempted  to  wish  that  I  could 
curse  you  :  but  no,  I  dare  not  breathe  even  my 
complaints  aloud.  I  fear  lest  heaven  should  hear 
them,  and  lest  this  house,  which  you  have  shut  a- 
gainst  me,  should  fall  upon  your  head.  I  will  lay 
myself  on  the  stone  before  your  door.  To-mor- 
row you  cannot  come  out  without  seeing  me,  and 
I  hardly  think  that  your  heart  will  not  soften  when 
you  see  what  I  shall  have  suffered  during  this 
dreadful  night.  But  if  the  severity  of  the  season, 
if  my  exhausted  old  age,  and  still  more,  the  sor- 
rows that  wound  my  heart,  should  occasion  my 
death,  then  shudder  at  your  crime  ;  weep  for  me, 
and  for  yourself  still  more.  Ah  !  I  should  think 
my  death  a  fortunate  circumstance,  if  it  could  pro- 
duce your  reformation. 

Such  were  the  complaints  of  this  old  man.  But 
the  north  wind  all  the  live-long  night  carried  a- 
way  his  sighs  unheard.  The  tempest  filled  the 
air  with  dreadful  whistlings;  the  shattered  trees  of 
the  forest  were  bent  down  ;  and  all  nature  seemed 
to  shudder  with  horror  at  the  crime  of  his  son. 
The  next  morning  the  old  man  was  found  dead 
upon  the  stone.  He  had  his  hands  clasped  togeth- 
er, and  his  face  turned  towards  heaven.  The 
name  of  his  son  was  the  last  word  he  had  pro- 
nounced. He  had  prayed  to  the  very  last  moment 
for  the  parricide. 


VANITY    PUNISHED. 


Mich.    Well,  I'll  show  you  that  I  know  more  than  all  your  Tcll}-mack3.    Crack  ! 
there's  a  fire  already  ! 


■ 


59 
VANITY   PUNISHED. 

A  DRAMA    IN    ONE    ACT. 

characters. 

Mr.  Waller. 
Mils.  Waller. 

Valentine, their  Son. 

Mr.  Ray, 

Mr.  Nash, Friends  to  Mr.   Waller. 

Michael, a  Country  Boy. 

Martin, a  Gardener. 

SCENE  I.     A  Garden. 

3Ir.    Waller,  Mrs.  Waller. 

Mr.  W.  Yonder  is  our  Valentine  walking  in 
the  garden,  with  a  book  in  his  hand.  I  am  very 
much  afraid  that  it  is  rather  through  vanity,  than 
from  a  real  desire  of  improving  himself,  that  he  al- 
ways appears  to  be  busy  reading. 

3Irs.  W.  What  makes  you  think  so,  my  dear  I 

Mr.  W.  Don't  you  remark  that  he  casts  a  side- 
look  now  and  then,  to  see  if  any  body  takes  notice 
of  him? 

Mrs.  W.  And  yet  his  masters  give  a  very  flat- 
tering account  of  his  diligence,  and  they  all  agree 
that  he  is  very  far  advanced,  for  his  age. 

Mr.  W.  That's  true.  But  if  my  suspicions  are 
right,  and  if  the  little  he  can  know  has  made  him 


.60  VANITY    PUNISHED. 

vain,  I  would  rather  a  hundred  times  that  he  knew 
nothing,  and  were  modest. 

Mrs.  W.  That  he  knew  nothing? 

Mr.  W.  Yes,  my  dear.  A  man  without  any 
great  extent  of  knowledge,  but  upright,  modest,  in- 
dustrious, is  a  much  more  estimable  member  of  so- 
ciety, than  a  learned  man,  whose  studies  have  turn- 
ed his  head,  and  puffed  up  his  heart. 

Mrs.  W.  I  cannot  think  my  son  is  of  that  de- 
scription. 

Mr.  W.  Heaven  forbid.  But  while  we  are  here 
in  the  country;  I  shall  have  more  opportunities  of 
observing  him  ;  and  I  am  resolved  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  first  that  shall  offer,  to  clear  up  my 
doubts.  I  see  him  coming  towards  us.  Leave  me 
alone  with  him  a  moment. 

SCENE  II. 

Mr.   Waller,    Valentine. 

Val.  (to  Michael,  whom  he  pushes  back.)  No  ; 
leave  me.  Father,  'tis  that  little  fool  of  a  country 
boy,  that  comes  always  to  interrupt  me  in  my  read- 
ing. 

Mr.  W.  Why  do  you  call  that  good-natured 
child  a  little  fool  ! 

Val.  Why,  he  knows  nothing. 

Mr.  TV.  Of  what  you  have  learnt,  I  grant  you  ; 
but  then  he  knows  many  things  that  you  do  not, 
and  you  may  both  inform  each  other  a  good  deal,  if 
you  will  communicate  what  you  know  to  each 
other. 


VANITY    PUNISHED.  61 

Val.  He  may  learn  a  good  deal  of  me,  but  what 
can  I  learn  from  him  1 

Mr.  W.  If  ever  you  should  have  a  farm,  do  you 
think  that  it  would  be  of  no  service  to  you  to  have 
an  early  notion  of  the  labors  of  the  country,  to  learn 
to  distinguish  trees  and  plants,  to  know  the  times 
of  sowing  and  harvest,  and  to  study  the  wonders  of 
vegetation  ?  Michael  possesses  these  different 
parts  of  knowledge,  and  desires  no  better  than  to 
share  them  with  you.  They  will,  perhaps,  be  here- 
after of  the  greatest  use  to  you.  Those,  on  the  con- 
trary, that  you  could  communicate,  would  be  of  no 
service  to  him.  So  that  you  see,  in  this  inter- 
course, all  the  advantage  is  on  your  side. 

Val.  Well,  but  papa,  would  it  become  me  to 
learn  any  thing  from  a  little  country  boy  ? 

Mr.  W.  Why  not,  if  he  is  capable  of  instructing 
you  1  I  know  no  real  distinction  among  men,  ex- 
cept that  of  useful  talents  and  good  manners  ;  and 
you  must  own  that,  in  both  these  points,  he  has 
equally  the  advantage  over  you. 

Val.   What,  in  good  manners  too? 

Mr.  TV.  In  every  station,  they  consist  in  treating 
all  persons  as  our  duty  prescribes  to  us.  He  does 
so,  in  showing  a  particular  attachment  and  complai- 
sance to  you.  Do  you  do  the  same  !  Do  you  make 
a  return  of  mildness  and  good  will  1  And  yet  he 
seems  to  merit  them.  He  is  active  and  intelligent, 
I  believe  him  to  be  possessed  of  good-nature,  spirit, 
and  good  sense.  You  ought  to  think  yourself  very 
happy  in   having  so   amiable  a  companion,  with 

vol.  2.  6 


68  VANITY    PUNISHED. 

whom  you  may  at  once  amuse  and  improve  your- 
self. His  father  is  my  foster-brother,  and  has  al- 
ways had  a  remarkable  affection  for  me.  I  am 
pretty  sure  that  Michael  has  the  same  for  you.  See 
how  the  poor  little  fellow  lingers  about  the  ter- 
race-walk, to  meet  you.  Take  care  to  use  him 
with  civility.  There  is  more  honour  and  integrity 
in  his  father's  cottage,  than  in  many  palaces.  His 
family  too  have  been  our  tenants  for  some  genera- 
tions, and  I  should  be  glad  to  see  the  connexion 
continued  between  our  children.     (He  goes  out.)    , 

Valentine,  (alone.)  Yes,  a  fine  connexion  in- 
deed !  I  think  father  is  joking.  This  little  coun- 
try boy  teach  me  any  thing  !  No,  I  will  surprise 
him  now  so  much  with  my  learning,  that  he  will 
not  think  of  talking  to  me  of  his  own,  I'll  warrant 
him. 

Enter  Michael. 

Mich.  You  won't  have  my  little  nosegay,  then, 
Master  Valentine  1 

Val.  Nosegay  1  Pshaw  !  neither  ranunculus  nor 
tulip! 

Mich.  Why,  it  is  true,  they  are  only  field-flowers, 
but  they  are  pretty,  and  I  thought  you  might  like 
to  know  them  by  their  names. 

Val.  A  great  matter,  indeed,  to  know  the  names 
of  your  herbs.  You  may  'carry  them  where  you 
found  them. 

Mich.  Well  now,  if  I  had  known  that,  I  would 
not  have  taken  the  trouble  to  gather  them.  I  was 
resolved  not  to  go  home  yesterday  evening,  without 
bringing  you  something,  and  as  I  came  back  from 


VANITY    PUNISHED.  63 

work,  though  it  was  rather  late,  and  I  had  a  great 
appetite  for  my  supper,  I  stopped  in  our  fields,  to 
gather  them  by  moonlight. 

Veil.  You  talk  of  the  moon  !  do  you  know  how 
big  it  is  1 

Mich.     Heh  !  Fegs  !  as  big  as  a  cheese. 

Val.  Ignorant  little  clown  !  (struts  with  an  air 
of  importance,  while  Michael  stands  staring  at  him.) 
Look  here,  (showing  him  his  book.)  This  is  Tel- 
emaque.     Have  you  ever  read  it  ? 

Mich.  That  is  not  in  the  Catechism  :  our  school- 
master never  talked  to  me  about  that. 

Val.  No,  it  is  none  of  your  country  books. 

Mich.  Nay,  how  should  I  have  read  it  then  ? 
But,  let  us  see  it. 

Val.  Do  not  think  of  touching  it  with  your  dirty 
hands!  (holding  one  of  them  up .)  Where  did  you 
buy  these  tanned  leather  gloves  1 

Mich.  Gloves!  it  is  my  hand,  master  Valentine. 

Val.  The  skin  is  so  hard,  one  may  cut  it  into 
shoe-soles. 

Mich.  It  is  not  with  idleness  that  they  are  grown 
so  hard.  You  know  how  to  talk  very  well,  I  dare 
say,  and  yet  I  would  not  change  conditions  with 
you.  To  work  honestly,  and  offend  nobody  is  all 
that  I  know,  and  it  would  be  no  harm  if  you  knew 
as  much.     Good  by,  sir. 

SCENE  III. 

Valentine,  alone. 
I  think  the  little  clown  had  a  mind  to  make  game 
of  me.     But  I  see  company  coming  on  the  terrace- 


64  VANITY    PUNISHED. 

walk.  I  must  put  on  a  studious  air  before  them. 
(He  sits  down  seeming  to  read  in  his  book  with 
great  attention.) 

Enter  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Waller,  Mr.  Ray,  Mr.  Nash. 

Mr.  W.  What  a  fine  evening !  Would  you 
choose,  gentlemen,  to  take  a  walk  up  this  slope,  to 
see  the  sun  setting  ? 

Mr.  R.  I  was  going  to  mention  it.  The  weath- 
er is  delicious,  and  the  sky  perfectly  without  a 
cloud  in  the  west. 

Mr.  N.  I  shall  be  sorry  to  go  far  from  the  night- 
ingale. Do  you  hear  her  charming  melody, madam  ? 

Mrs.  W.  I  was  absorbed  in  thinking.  My  heart 
was  filled  with  pleasure. 

Mr.  R.  How  can  any  person  live  in  town  during 
this  charming  weather  ? 

Mr.  W.  Valentine,  will  you  wall^  up  the  slope 
with  us  to  see  the  sun  setting  ? 

Val.  No,  I  thank  you,  father.  I  am  reading 
something  here  that  gives  me  more  pleasure. 

Mr.  W.  If  you   speak  truth,  I  pity  you,  and  if 

you  do  not Come,  gentlemen,  there  is  not  a 

moment  to  lose.  Let  us  continue  our  walk.  (They 
continue  their  walk  up  the  hill.) 

SCENE  IV. 

Val.  (seeing  them  at  a  good  distance.)  There, 
they  are  almost  out  of  sight:  I  need  not  be  under 
any  constraint  now.  (Puts  the  book  in  his  pocket.) 
What  an  opinion  these  gentlemen  will  have  of  my 


VANITY    PUNISHED.  65 

diligence!  I  should  like  to  be  a  bird  and  fly  after 
them,  to  hear  the  praises  that  they  are  giving  me. 
(Saunters  about,  yawning  and  listless,  for  near  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.)  I  am  tired,  after  all,  of  being 
here  alone.  I  can  do  better  !  The  sun  is  set  now, 
and  I  hear  the  company  returning.  I  will  slip  into 
the  wood,  and  hide  myself,  so  that  they  shall  scarce- 
ly find  me.  Mother  will  send  all  the  servants  to 
look  for  me  with  lights.  They  will  talk  of  nothing 
but  me  all  the  evening,  and  will  compare  me  with 
those  great  philosophers  that  have  been  known  to 
go  astray  in  their  learned  meditations,  and  to  lose 
themselves  in  woods.  My  adventure  will  make  a 
fine  noise  !    Now  for  it.     (He  goes  into  the  wood.) 

SCENE  V. 
Mr.  and  3Irs.  Waller,  Mr.  Ray,  3Ir.  Nash. 

Mr.  R.  I  never  saw  weather  more  pleasing,  nor 
a  more  charming  scene. 

Mr.  W.  Gentlemen,  my  pleasure  has  been 
doubled,  by  enjoying  it  in  your  company. 

Mr.  N.  The  nightingale  too  still  continues  her 
song.  Her  voice  seems  even  to  grow  more  tender 
as  night  comes  on.  1  am  sorry  that  Mrs.  Waller 
does  not  seem  to  listen  to  it  with  as  much  pleasure 
as  before. 

Mrs.  W.  It  is  because  I  'am  anxious  about  my 
son.  I  do  not  see  him  in  the  garden.  (She  calls 
him.)  Valentine  ! — He  does  not  answer.  (Per- 
ceiving the  gardener,  she  calls  him.)  Martin,  have 
you  seen  my  son  ? 
6* 


66  VANITY    PUNISHED. 

Mar.  Yes,  madam,  about  ten  minutes  ago  I  saw 
him  turn  towards  the  grove. 

Mrs.  W.  Towards  the  grove  !  Bless  me ;  if  he 
should  lose  himself!  Pray  run  after  him  and  bring 
him  in. 

Mar.  Yes,  madam.     (Goes  out.) 

Mrs.  W.     Mr.  Waller,  won't  you  go  with  him  ? 

Mr.  W.  No,  my  dear,  I  am  not  uneasy,  for  my 
part.     Martin  will  be  able  to  find  him. 

Mrs!'  W.  But  if  he  should  take  a  different  way  1 
I  am  much  frightened  ! 

Mr.  IV.  Make  yourself  easy,  madam.  Mr.  Ray 
and  I  will  take  the  two  sides  of  the  wood,  while  the 
gardener  will  take  the  middle.  We  cannot  fail  of 
finding  him. 

Mrs.  W.  Ah,  gentlemen,  I  did  not  dare  to  ask 
it  of  you,  but  you  know  the  feelings  of  a  mother. 

Mr.  W.  Gentlemen,  do  not  give  "yourselves  so 
much  trouble,  I'd  rather  you  would  not. 

Mr.  R.  Do  not  take  it  amiss  that  we  comply 
with  Mrs.  Waller's  request,  rather  than  yours. 

Mr.  W.  I  must  confess  it  is  against  my  inclina- 
tion. 

Mr.  N.  We  will  receive  your  reproaches  at  our 
return.  (Mr.  R.  and  Mr.  N.  walk  towards  the 
grove.) 

SCENE  VI. 
Mr.  and.  Mrs.  Waller. 
Mrs.  W.  Why,  my  dear,  whence  comes  this  in- 
difference about  your  son  1 

Mr.  W.  Do  you  think,  my  dear,  that  I  love  him 


VANITY    PUNISHED.  67 

less  than  you  do  ?  No,  but  I  know  better  how  to 
love  him. 

Mrs.  W.  And  what  if  he  could  not  be  found  ? 

Mr.  TV.   I  should  be  very  glad  of  it. 

Mrs.  W.  What,  that  he  should  pass  the  night  in 
a  gloomy  wood  ?  What  would  become  of  the  poor 
child  ?  and  what  would  become  of  me? 

Mr.  W.  You  would  both  be  cured.  He  of  his 
vanity,  and  you  of  your  injudicious  fondness,  that 
upholds  him  in  it. 

Mrs.  W.  What  do  you  mean,  my  dear  ? 

Mr.  TV.  I  am  just  now  convinced  of  what  I  only 
suspected  in  the  morning.  The  boy's  head  is  filled 
with  excessive  vanity,  and  all  his  reading  is  but 
ostentation.  He  has  only  lost  himself  on  purpose 
to  make  us  look  for  him,  and  to  appear  absent  and 
forgetful  through  intense  study.  It  gives  me  more 
pain  that  his  mind  should  wander  from  a  right  way 
of  thinking,  than  if  his  steps  really  went  astray. 
He  will  be  unhappy  all  his  life,  if  he  is  not  cured 
of  it  in  time,  and  there  is  nothing  but  a  wholesome 
humiliation  that  can  save  him. 

Mrs.  W.  But  do  you  consider— 

Mr.  W.  Yes,  every  thing.  He  is  eleven  years 
old.  If  he  can  profit  at  all  by  his  natural  sense, 
or  his  learning,  the  light  of  the  moon  and  the  di- 
rection of  the  wind,  may  guide  him  sufficiently  to 
clear  the  wood. 

Mrs.  W.  But  if  he  has  not  that  thought? 

Mr.  W.  He  will  then  better  see  the  necessity  of 
profiting  by  the  lessons  that  I  have  given  him* upon 
this  subject,     Besides,  we  intend  him  for  the  army, 


68  VANITY    PUNISHED. 

and  in  that  profession  he  will  have  many  nights 
to  pass  without  shelter.  He  will  know  now  what 
it  is,  and  not  go  to  a  camp  quite  raw,  to  be  laughed 
at  by  his  companions.  Then  the  air  is  not  very 
cold  at  this  season  of  the  year,  and,  for  one  night, 
he  will  not  die  of  hunger.  Since  by  his  folly  he 
has  brought  himself  into  trouble,  let  him  get  out  of 
it  again,  or  suffer  the  disagreeable  consequences 
of  it. 

Mrs.  W.  No  ;  I  cannot  agree  to  it ;  and  if  you 
don't  send  people  after  him,  1  will  go  myself. 

Mr.  W.  Well,  my  dear,  I  will  make  you  easy, 
though  I  am  sorry  that  you  will  not  let  me  follow 
my  plan,  as  I  intended.  I  shall  tell  little  Michael 
to  join  him  as  it  were  by  chance.  Colin  too  shall 
be  at  a  small  distance,  to  run  to  them  in  case  of 
any  accident.  For  any  thing  more,  do  not  ask  it ; 
I  have  taken  my  resolution,  and  do  not  choose,  by 
a  blind  weakness,  to  deprive  my  son  of  a  lesson 
that  may  be  of  service  to  him.  Here  are  our  friends 
coming  back  with  Martin. 

Mrs.  W.  O  heavens  I  I  see,  and  they  have  not 
found  him. 

Mr.  W.  I  am  glad  of  it. 

Enter  Mr.  Ray,  and  Mr.  Nash. 

Mr.  N.  Our  search  has  been  in  vain ;  but  if 
Mr.  Waller  will  let  us  have  some  lights  and  some 
servants — 

Mr.  W.  No,  gentlemen  ;  you  have  complied 
with'my  wife's  request,  you  will  now  listen  to  mine. 
I  am  a  father,  and  know  my  duty  as  one.     Let  us 


VANITY    PUNISHED.  69 

go  into  the  parlour,  and  I  will  give  you  an  account 
of  my  design. 

SCENE  VII.    (The  middle  of  the  wood.) 

Valentine.  What  have  I  done,  fool  that  Iaml 
It  is  dark  night,  and  I  don't  know  which  way  to 
turn,  (calls.)  Father !  father  !  Nobody  answers.  I 
am  undone  ;  what  will  become  of  me  ?  (mes.)  O 
mother  !  where  are  you  ?  Answer  your  son  this 
once.  Heavens !  what  is  that  running  through  the 
wood  ?  If  it  should  be  a  robber !  Help  !  help ! 
Enter  Michael. 

Mich.  Who's  there  ?  Who  is  it  that  cries  so  1 
What,  is  it  you,  sir?  How  do  you  happen  to  be 
here  at  this  time  of  night  1 

Vol.  O,  dear  Michael,  my  dear  friend,  I  have 
lost  my  way. 

Midi,  (looking  at  himjirst  with  an  air  of  sur- 
prise, and  then  bursting  into  a  laugh.)  You  don't 
say  so  ?  I  your  dear  Michael  ?  your  dear  friend  1 
You  mistake  ?  I  am  only  a  dirty  little  country  boy. 
Don't  you  remember?  Nay,  let  go  my  hand.  The 
skin  is  only  fit  to  cut  up  fur  shoe-soles. 

Val.  My  dear  friend,  excuse  my  impertinence, 
and  for  pity's  sake  guide  me  back  to  our  house. 
My  mother  will  pay  you  well. 

Mich,  {looking  at  him  from  top  to  bottom.)  Have 
you  finished  reading  your  Tellymack  1 

Val.  (looking  down,  quite  confused.)  Ah,  pray 
now — 

Mich,  (putting  his  finger  to  the  side  of  his  nose, 


70  VANITY     PUNISHED. 

and  looking  up.)  Tell  me,  my  little  wise  man,  bow 
big  may  the  moon  be  just  now  ? 

Vol.  Nay,  spare  me,  I  beg  of  you,  and  guide  me 
out  of  this  wood. 

Mich.  You  see,  then,  master,  that  one  may  be  a 
dirty  little  country  boy,  and  yet  be  good  for  some- 
thing. What  would  you  give  to  know  your  way,  in- 
stead of  knowing  how  big  the  moon  is? 

Vol.  I  own  my  fault,  and  I  promise  never  to 
show  any  pride  for  the  future. 

Mich.  Well,  that's  clever.  But  this  repenting, 
through  necessity,  may  only  hang  by  a  thread.  It 
is  not  amiss  that  a  young  gentleman  should  see 
what  it  is  to  look  upon  a  poor  man's  son  like  a  dog, 
and  play  with  him  according  to  his  fancy.  To 
show  you  that  an  honest  clown  does  not  bear  mal- 
ice, I  will  pass  the  night  with  you,  as  I  have  passed 
many  a  one  with  our  sheep  on  the  downs.  To- 
morrow morning  early,  I  will  take  you  home  to 
your  father.  Here,  then,  I'll  share  my  bed-cham- 
ber with  you. 

Vol.  O,  my  good  Michael. 

Mich,  (stretching  himself  under  a  tree.)  Come, 
sir,  settle  yourself  at  your  ease. 

Vol.  But  where  is  this  bed-chamber  of  yours  1 

Mich.  Why  here,  (striking  on  the  ground.)  Were 
is  my  bed  ;  take  your  place.  It  is  wide  enough 
for  us  both. 

Veil.  What,  must  we  lie  here  under  the  open  air  1 

Mich.  I  assure  you,  sir,  the  king  himself  has  not 
a  better  bed.  See  what  a  fine  ceiling  you  have 
over  your  head  ;  how  many  bright  diamonds  adorn 


VANITY    PUNISHED.  71 

it ;  and  then  our  handsome  silver  lamp,  (pointing 
to  the  moon.)  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ? 

Val.  O,  my  dear  Michael,  I  am  ready  to  die 
with  hunger. 

Mich.  I  dare  say  I  can  help  you  there  too.  See, 
here  are  some  potatoes.  Dress  them  as  you  know 
how. 

Val.  Why  they  are  raw. 

Mich.  It  is  only  to  boil  or  roast  them.  Make  a 
fire. 

Val.  We  want  a  light  to  kindle  one  !  and  then 
where  shall  we  find  coal  or  wood  ? 

Mich,  (smiling.)  Cannot  you  find  all  that  in 
your  books  ? 

Val.  O  no,  my  dear  Miehael. 
Mich.  Well,  I'll  show  you  that  I  know  more 
than  you  and  all  your  Tellymacks.  (takes  a  tinder- 
box  with  flint  and  steel  out  of  his  pocket.)  Crack  ! 
there's  a  fire  already  !  now  you  shall  see.  (he 
gathers  a  handful  of  dry  leaves ,  and  putting  Hum 
round  the  tinder,  fans  with  his  hand  until  they  take 
fire.)  We  shall  soon  have  a  blazing  hearth,  (he 
puts  bits  of  dry  wood  upon  the  lighted  leaves.)  Do 
you  see  1  (lays  the  potatoes  close  to  the  fire,  and 
sprinkles  them  with  dust.)  This  must  serve,  in- 
stead of  ashes,  to  hinder  them  from  burning,  (hav- 
ing laid  them  properly,  and  covered  them  once  more 
with  dust,  he  turns  the  fire  over  them,  then  adds 
fresh  wood,  and  blows  it  up  with  his  breath.)  Have 
you  a  finer  fire  in  your  father's  kitchen  ?  come, 
now,  they  will  soon  be  done. 


72  VANITY    PUNISHED. 

Vol.  O,  my  good  friend,  what  return  can  I  make 
to  your  kindness? 

Mich.  Return  ?  Pooh  !  when  one  does  good,  it 
pays  itself.  But  stop  a  moment,  while  the  potatoes 
are  roasting,  I  will  fetch  some  hay  for  you.  I 
saw  a  good  deal  lying  in  one  part  of  the  wood. 
You  can  sleep  upon  that  like  a  prince.  But  take 
care  of  the  roast  while  I  am  away,  (goes  out  sing- 
ing.) 

SCENE  VIII. 
Vol.  Fool  that  I  am  !  how  could  I  be  so  unjust 
as  to  despise  that  child.  What  am  I,  compared  to 
him  1  How  little  am  I  in  my  own  eyes,  when  I 
examine  his  behaviour  and  mine  ;  but  it  shall  nev- 
er happen  again.  Henceforward,  I  will  not  despise 
those  of  a  lower  condition  than  myself  I  will  not 
be  so  proud  nor  so  vain,  (he  walks  about  and  gal h- 
ers  up  dry  sticks  fur  the  fire.) 

Enter  Michael,  dragging  in  a  large  bundle  of  hay. 

Mich.  Here  is  your  bed  of  down,  your  coverlet 
and  all.     I  will  make  you  a  bed  now,  quite  soft. 

Val  I  thank  you,  my  friend.  I  would  help  you, 
but  I  don't  know  how  to  set  about  it. 

Mich.  I  don't  want  you.  I  can  do  it  alone.  Go 
warm  yourself,  (he  unties  the  bundle,  spreads  part 
of  it  on  the  ground,  and  reserves  the  rest  for  a  cov- 
ering.) That's  finished.  Now  let  us  think  of  sup- 
per, (takes  a  potato  Jrom  tht  fire,  and  tastes  it.) 
They  are  done.  Eat  them  while  they  are  warm, 
they  are  better  so. 


VANITY    PUNISHED. 

Val.  What,  won't  you  eat  some  with  me  1 

Mich.  No,  thank  you.  There  is  just  enough  for 
you.         Val.  How  ?  do  you  think  1 — 

Mich.  You  are  too  kind.  I  won't  touch  them. 
I  am  not  hungry.  Besides,  I  shall  have  as  much 
pleasure  in  seeing  you  eat  them.     Are  they,  good  1 

Val.  Excellent,  my  dear  Michael. 

Mich.  I  dare  say  you  never  tasted  sweeter  at 
your  papa's  table. 

Val.  That's  very  true. 

Mich.  Have  you  finished  ?  Come,  then,  your 
bed  is  ready  for  you.  ( Valentine,  lies  duicn.  Mi- 
chael spreads  the  rest  of  the  hay  over  him,  then 
takes  off  his  jacket.)  The  nights  are  cold  ;  here, 
cover  yourself  with  this  too.  If  you  find  yourself 
chilly,  come  to  the  fire  ;  I'll  take  care  that  it  does 
not  go  out.     Good  night. 

Val.  Dear  Michael,  I  shall  never  be  easy  until 
I  make  amends  for  treating  you  ill. 

Mick.  Think  no  more  of  it;  I  do  not.  The  lark 
will  awake  us  to-morrow  morning  at  break  of  day. 
(Valentine falls  asleep,  and  Michael  sits  up  close 
by  him  to  keep  the  fire  in.  At  break  of  day  Mi- 
chael ajcakes  him.)  Come,  master,  you  have  slept 
enough.  The  lark  has  opened  her  song  already, 
and  the  sun  will  soon  appear  above  the  hills.  Let 
us  set  out  and  go  to  your  father's. 

Val.  (rubbing  his  eyes.)  What,  already?  so 
soon  1     Good  morning,  my  dear  Michael  ! 

Mich.  Good  morning,  master  Valentine  !  How 
did  you  sleep  1 

vol.  2.  7 


74  VANITY    PUNISHED. 

Vol.  (rising.)  As  sound  as  a  rock.  Here  is 
your  jacket  I  thank  you  a  thousand,  thousand 
times.     I  shall  never   forget  you   as  long  as  I  live. 

Mich.  Do  not  talk  of  thanks.  I  am  as  happy  as 
you.    Come,  walk  with  me.    I'll  guide  you.  (They 

SCENE  IX.     A  room  in  Mr.  Waller's  house. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Waller. 

Mrs.  W.  In  what  terrors  have  I  passed  this 
whole  night  !  I  fear,  my  dear,  that  some  accident 
has  happened  to  him.  We  must  send  out  people  to 
look  for  him. 

Mr.  W.  Make  yourself  easy,  my  love;  I  will  go 
myself.  But  who  knot  ks  ?  (the  door  opens.)  Look 
here  he  is. 

Enter  Valentine  and  Michael. 

Mrs.  W.  (running  to  her  son.)  Ah  !  do  I  see 
you  again,  my  dear  child  1 

Mich.  Yes,  madam,  there  he  is,  ifegs !  a  little 
better  mayhap  than  before  you  lost  him. 

Mr.  W.  Is  that  the  case  ? 

Vol.  Yes,  papa.  I  have  been  well  punished  for 
my  pride.  What  will  you  give  him  that  has  re- 
formed me  ? 

Mr.  W.  A  good  reward,  and  with  the  greatest 
cheerfulness. 

Val.  (presenting  Michael  to  him.)  Well,  this  is 
he  to  whom  you  owe  it.  I  owe  him  my  friendship 
too,  and  he  shall  always  share  it. 

Mr.  W.  If  that  be  so,  I'll  make  him  a  little  pr**- 


DECEPTION.  ii> 

ent  every  year  of  a  couple  of  guineas,   for  curing 
you  of  an  intolerable  fault. 

Mrs.  TV.  And  I  will  make  him  one  of  the  same 
sum,  for  having  preserved  my  son  to  me. 

Mich.  If  you  pay  me  for  the  satisfaction  that 
you  feel,  I  should  pay  you  for  what  I  felt.  So  we 
are  clear. 

Mr.  TV.  No,  my  little  man,  we  shall  not  depart 
from  our  words.  But  let  us  all  four  go  to  break- 
fast. Valentine  shall  relate  his  adventuies  of  the 
night. 

Val.  Yes,  papa  ;  and  I  shall  not  spare  myself, 
though  I  should  be  turned  into  ridicule  for  it.  I 
blush  for  my  folly,  but  hope  I  shall  never  have  to 
blush  for  the  same  behaviour  again. 

Mr.  TV.  My  dear  son,  how  happy  you  wilJ  make 
your  mother  and  me,  by  proving  that  your  reforma- 
tion is  sincere,  and  will  never  suffer  a  relapse. 

Valentine  takes  Michael  by  the  hand.  Mr. 
Waller  gives  his  to  his  lady,  and  they  all  go  into 
the  next  apartment. 


THE    LITTLE  GIRL    DECEIVED    BY  HER 
MAID. 

Mrs.   Barlow,  Amelia. 

Ame.  Mother,  will  you  give  me  leave  to  go  and 
see  my  cousin  Henry  this  evening? 
Mrs.  B.  No  I  do  not  wish  it,  Amelia. 
Ame.  And  why  not,  mother  1 


76  DECEPTION. 

Mrs.  B.  I  have  no  occasion,  I  suppose,  to  tell 
you  my  reasons.  A  little  miss  ought  always  to 
obey  her  parents,  without  asking  them  questions. 
However,  to  satisfy  you  that  I  have  always  a  reas- 
onable motive,  whenever  I  order  or  forbid  you  any 
thing,  I  shall  tell  you.  Your  cousin  Henry  can 
only  set  you  an  indifferent  example  ;  and  I  should 
fear,  if  you  saw  him  too  often,  that  you  would  imi- 
tate his  levity  and  indiscretion. 
Ame.  But,  mother — 

Mrs.  B.  No  reply,  I  request.  You  know  that 
my  orders  must  be  followed  punctually. 

Amelia  retired  to  hide  her  tears;  and  soon  after, 
her  mother  being  gone  out,  she  sat  down  in  a  cor- 
ner, and  gave  her  grief  full  vent.  Just  then,  Nan- 
cy, who  had  lately  come  into  Mrs.  Barlow's  service, 
entered  the  room.  "How,  Miss  Amelia,"  said 
she,  "  are  you  crying  1  What  is  the  matter  1  May 
I  know  what  troubles  you  1" 

Ame.  Leave  me,  Nancy.  You  cannot  comfort 
me. 

Nan.  Nay,  why  not?  There  was  miss  Sophy, 
at  my  last  service,  always  came  to  me  whenever 
any  thing  ailed  her.  "  My  dear  Nancy,  she  would 
say,  you  see  what  has  happened  to  me  ;  tell  me, 
what  must  I  do  1n  And  I  had  always  good  advice 
to  give  her. 

Ame.  I  do  not  want  your  advice.  I  tell  you 
once  more,  that  you  can  do  nothing  for  me. 

Nan.  Give  me  leave,  at  least,  to  go  for  your 
mother.     She  will,  perhaps,  be  better  able  to  com- 


DECEPTION.  77 

fort  you.     I  do  not  like  to  see  so  pretty  a  miss  as 
you  in  trouble. 

Ame.  O  yes,  mother  indeed  ! 

Nan.  I  cannot  believe  that  it  was  she  who 
grieved  you.      Ame.  Who  should  it  be,  then? 

Nan.  I  could  never  have  thought  it.  I  should 
always  suppose  you  so  reasonable,  that  your  mother 
could  not  refuse  you  any  request.  There,  if  I  had 
a  child  so  well  disposed  as  you,  she  should  be  her 
own  mistress.  But  your  mother  loves  to  command, 
and  for  a  whim,  would  oppose  your  most  innocent 
wishes.  How  can  one  have  so  amiable  a  child, 
and  take  pleasure  to  thwart  her  !  I  cannot  express 
how  I  suffer  to  see  you  in  this  situation. 

Ame.  (beginning  to  cry  afresh.)  All,  it  will  break 
my  heart. 

Nan.  Indeed  I  fear  it  will.  How  red  and  swell- 
ed your  eyes  are  !  You  are  very  cruel  to  yourself, 
not  to  let  those,  who  love  you  sincerely,  try  to  give 
you  some  comfort.  If  miss  Sophy  had  been  in  half 
your  trouble,  she  would  not  have  failed  to  open  her 
heart  to  me. 

Ame.  I  dare  not  mention  mine  to  you. 

Nan.  Not  that,  for  my  part,  I  care  much  about 
knowing  it— O,  it  is  perhaps,  because  your  mother 
makes  you  stay  at  home  while  she  goes  to  the  play. 

Ame.  No  :  she  has  promised  me  not  to  go 
there  without  me. 

Nan.  Well,    what   is  it,  then  ?     Your    trouble 
seems  to  increase.    Shall  I  go  for  your  little  cousin  ] 
You  may  play  along  with  him  to  divert  you. 
7* 


78  DECEPTION. 

Ame.  {sighing.)  Ah  !  I  shall  not  have  that  plea- 
sure any  more. 

Nan.  It  will  not  be  hard  to  procure  it  for  you. 
A  young  miss  should  have  some  company.  Your 
mother  has  not  a  mind  to  make  a  nun  of  you. 
Ame.  I  am  not  allowed  to  see  him. 
Nan.  Not  to  see  him  ?  I  do  not  know  what  your 
mother  thinks.  Miss  Sophy's  was  just  the  same. 
She  would  never  let  her  have  the  least  intimacy 
with  little  Semple.  But  how  we  contrived  to  de- 
ceive her  ! 

Ame.  How  was  that  1 

Nan.  We  watched  the  moment  when  she  went 
out  to  visit  :  then  either  miss  Sophy  went  to  Sem- 
ple, or  Semple  came  to  her. 

Ame.  And  her  mother  did  not  know  it? 
Nan.  It  was  I  who  guarded  against  that. 
Ame.  But  if  1  were  to  go  to  see  my  cousin,  and 
mother  should  ask,  where  is  Amelia  ? 

Nan.  I  would  tell  her  you  were  in  the  garden  : 
or,  if  it  was  a  little  late,  I  would  tell  her  that  you 
were  gone  to  bed,  and  fast  asleep  ;  and  immedi- 
ately I  would  run  to  find  you. 

Ame.  And  if  I  thought  that  my  mother  would 
know  nothing  of  it — 

Nan.  Trust  me  for  that :  she  will  never  suspect 
it.  Will  you  take  my  advice  1  Go  and  pass  the 
evening  with  your  little  cousin.  Never  trouble 
yourself  about  the  rest. 

Ame.  I  have  a  mind  to  try  it  for  once.     But  you 
promise  me  at  least  that  mother — 
Nan.  Go  I  never  fear  ! 


DECEPTION.  79 

Amelia  in  effect  did  go  to  see  her  cousin.  Her 
mother  came  home  a  short  time  after,  and  asked 
where  she  was.  Nancy  answered,  that  she  had 
been  tired  of  sitting  all  alone,  so  had  eaten  a  good 
supper,  and  was  gone  to  bed. 

In  this  manner  Amelia  deceived  her  unsuspect- 
ing mother,  several  times."  Ah!  much  more  did 
she  deceive  herself.  Before  this,  she  was  always 
cheerful,  and  took  pleasure  in  being  near  her  moth- 
er, and  would  run  with  joy  to  meet  her,  whenever 
she  had  been  absent  a  moment.  But  now,  what 
was  become  of  her  cheerfulness  1  She  was  ever 
saying  to  herself,  "  O  dear !  if  mother  knew  where 
I  have  been  !"  and  she  trembled  whenever  she 
heard  her  voice.  If  at  any  time  she  saw  her  look 
a  little  serious,  u  I  am  undone  !"  she  would  cry. 
"  Mother  has  discovered  that  I  have  disobeyed 
her."  But  this  was  not  all  that  made  her  unhap- 
py. Nancy  would  often  cunningly  tell  her  how 
generous  miss  Sophy  had  been  to  her;  how  often 
she  would  give  her  sugar  and  tea;  and  how  freely 
she  had  trusted  her  with  the  keys  of  the  cellar  and 
closet.  Amelia  took  pride  in  deserving  from  Nan- 
cy the  same  praises  for  confidence  and  generosity. 
She  stole  sugar  and  tea  from  her  mother  for  Nan- 
cy, and  found  means  to  procure  her  the  keys  of  the 
cellar  and  closet.  Nevertheless,  she  felt  the  re- 
proaches of  her  own  conscience.  "  I  am  doing 
wrong,"  she  would  say  to  herself,  "  and  my  tricks 
will  be  found  out  sooner  or  later.  I  shall  lose  the 
friendship  of  my  mother."     She  then  went  to  Nan- 


80  DECEPTION* 

cy,  and  protested  that  she  would  never  give  her 
any  thing  again. 

"  Just  as  you  please,  miss,"  answered  Nancy  ; 
"  but  take  care,  you  may,  perhaps,  have  reason  to 
repent  it !  Stay  till  your  mother  comes  home,  I  will 
tell  her  how  obediently  you  have  followed  her  or- 
ders." 

Amelia  cried,  and  did  every  thing  that  Nancy 
desired  her.  Before,  it  was  Nancy  who  obeyed 
Amelia,  now  it  was  Amelia  who  obeyed  Nancy. 
She  suffered  every  sort  of  rudeness  from  her,  and 
had  no  one  to  whom  she  could  complain.  The 
wicked  girl  came  to  her  one  day,  and  said,  "  You 
must  know  I  have  a  fancy  to  taste  the  pie  that  was 
locked  up  in  the  closet  yesterday  :  besides  that,  I 
want  a  bottle  of  wine.  You  must  go  and  look  for 
the  keys  in  your  mother's  drawer." 

Ame.  But,  dear  Nancy  ! — 

Nan.  We  are  not  talking  about  dear  Nancy !  do 
you  mind  what  I  ask  of  you. 

Ame.  Why,  mother  will  see  us  ;  or  if  she  does 
not  see  us,  God  will  see  us,  and  punish  us. 

Nan.  He  saw  you  all  the  times  that  you  went  to 
your  cousin,  yet  I  never  observed  that  he  has  pun- 
ished you. 

Amelia  had  received  good  instructions  in  reli- 
gion from  her  mother.  She  was  strongly  persuad- 
ed that  God  has  always  an  eye  upon  us  ;  that  he 
rewards  our  good  actions,  and  has  only  forbidden 
us  what  is  evil,  because  it  is  hurtful  to  us.  It  was 
through  mere  thoughtlessness  that  she  went  to  see 
her  cousin,  contrary  to  her  mother's  orders.     But 


DECEPTION.  81 

it  always  happens,  that  from  yielding  to  one  error, 
we  fall  immediately  into  another.  She  found  her- 
self obliged  to  do  every  wrong  thing  that  her  ser- 
vant ordered  her,  for  fear  of  being  betrayed  by  her. 

It  may  easily  be  imagined  how  much  she  suffer- 
ed in  this  situation.  She  one  day  withdrew  to  her 
chamber  to  weep  at  leisure.  "  0,,?  cried  she,  "  how 
much  am  I  to  be  pitied,  who  am  so  disobedient! 
Unhappy  child  that  1  am  !  slave  to  my  own  ser- 
vant !  I  can  no  longer  do  what  is  my  duty,  but  am 
forced  to  do  what  a  wicked  maid  orders  me.  I 
must  be  a  liar,  a  thief,  and  a  hypocrite  !  Lord  have 
mercy  on  me  I"  Saying  this,  she  held  up  both 
hands  to  hide  her  face,  which  was  drowned  in  tears, 
and  began  to  reflect  what  steps  she  should  take. 
At  length,  she  suddenly  rose  up,  crying,  "  I  am  re- 
solved, and  though  my  mother  were  not  to  let  me 
come  near  her  for  a  month  ;  though  she  were  to — 
But  no,  she  will  be  reconciled  to  me;  she  will 
call  me  once  more  her  Amelia.  I  depend  on  her 
fondness.  But  how  dear  it  will  cost  me  !  How 
shall  I  bear  her  looks  and  reproaches]?  No  matter; 
I  will  confess  the"  whole  to  her." 

She  then  immediately  ran  out  of  her  cham- 
ber, and  seeing  her  mother  walking  alone  in  the 
garden,  flew  towards  her,  and  embracing  her  close- 
ly, covered  her  cheeks  with  her  tears.  Grief  and 
confusion  stopped  her  speech. 

Mrs.  B.  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  Amelia  1 

Ame.  Ah  !  mother — 

Mrs.  B.  What  is  the  meaning  of  these  tears  ? 

Ame.  My  dear  mother ! 


82  DECEPTION. 

Mrs.  B.  Speak,  child  !  what  occasions  this  agi- 
tation ? 

Ame.  If  I  thought  that  yon  could  pardon  me  ! — 

Mrs.B.  I  pardon  you,  since  your  repentance  ap- 
pears so  lively  and  sincere. 

Ame.  My  dear  mother,  I  have  been  a  disobedient 
girl ;  1  have  gone  several  times  to  see  my  cousin 
Henry  contrary  to  your  orders. 

Mrs.  B.  Is  it  possible,  my  dear  Amelia?  you, 
who  formerly  feared  so  much  to  displease  me  ! 

Ame.  I  should  not  be  your  dear  Amelia,  if  you 
knew  all. 

Mrs.  B.  You  make  me  uneasy  :  but  trust  every 
thing  to  me.  You  must  have  been  deceived. 
You  never  gave  me  cause  of  complaint  until  now. 

Ame.  Yes,  mother,  I  have  been  deceived.  It  was 
Nancy,  Nancy — 

Mrs.  B.  What !  was  it  she  1 

Ame.  Yes,  mother  :  and  that  she  might  not  tell 
you,  I  have  often  stolen  the  keys  of  the  cellar  and 
closet.  I  have  stolen  for  her  I  know  not  how  much 
sugar  and  tea. 

Mrs.  B  Unhappy  mother  that  I  am  !  Do  I  hear 
this  shocking  account  of  my  own  daughter  !  Leave 
me,  unworthy  child  !  I  must  go  and  consult  with 
your  father  how  we  should  treat  you. 

Ame.  No,  mother,  I  will  not  quit  you.  Punish 
me  first,  but  promise  me  that  your  love  for  me  will 
one  day  return. 

Mrs.  B.  Unhappy  child  !  you  will  be  sufficiently 
punished. 

Mrs.  Barlow,  at  these  words,  left  Amelia  quite 


DECEPTION.  83 

disconsolate,  and  went  to  seek  Mr.  Barlow,  and 
they  concerted  together  the  means  of  saving  their 
child  from  ruin. 

Nancy  was  called  up.  Mr.  Barlow,  after  the  se- 
verest reproaches,  ordered  her  to  quit  his  house 
immediately.  It  was  in  vain  she  wept  and  pleaded 
for  a  less  rigorous  sentence.  In  vain  she  promised 
that  nothing  of  the  same  sort  should  ever  happen 
again.  Mr.  Barlow  was  inexorable.  You  know, 
answered  he,  how  mildly  I  have  treated  you, 
and  what  indulgence  I  have  shown  to  your  faults. 
I  thought  that  my'  kindness  might  induce  you  to 
second  my  wishes  as  to  my  child's  education,  and 
it  is  you  who  have  led  her  into  disobedience  and 
theft.  You  are  a  monster  in  my  sight  !  Leave 
my  presence,  and  be  careful  to  reform,  unless  you 
wish  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  more  terrible  Judge. 

It  was  next  Amelia's  turn.  She  appeared  before 
her  parents  in  a  situation  worthy  of  pity.  Her  eyes 
were  swoln  with  crying  ;  all  the  features  of  her 
face  were  changed  ;  a  frightful  paleness  covered 
her  cheeks,  and  her  whole  body  shuddered  as  if  in 
the  convulsions  of  an  ague.  Unable  to  utter  a  word, 
she  awaited  in  mournful  silence  the  judgment  of 
her  father. 

"  You  have,''  said  he,  in  a  severe  voice,  "  you 
have  deceived,  you  have  offended  your  parents. 
What  could  incline  you  to  follow  the  advice  of  a 
wicked  servant  rather  than  of  your  own  mother, 
who  loves  you  so  tenderly,  and  desires  nothing  in 
the  world  so  much  as  to  make  you  happy  1  If  I 
punished  you  as  much  as  your  behaviour  deserved  ; 


84  DECEPTION. 

if  I  banished  you  from  my  sight,  as  I  have  the  com- 
panion of  your  faults,  who  could  accuse  me  of  in- 
justice V 

Ame.  Ah,  papa,  you  can  never  be  unjust  towards 
me.  Punish  me  with  all  the  severity  you  shall 
judge  necessary,  I  will  bear  the  whole  :  but  take 
me  once  more  to  your  arms ;  call  me  once  more 
your  Amelia  ! 

Mr.  B.  I  cannot  embrace  you  so  soon.  I  am 
willing  to  omit  all  punishment,  on  account  of  the 
confession  that  you  have  made  ;  but  I  shall  not  call 
you  my  Amelia,  until  you  have  deserved  it  by  a  long 
repentance.  Pay  great  attention  to  your  conduct. 
Punishments  always  follow  faults,  and  it  is  you  who 
have  punished  yourself. 

Amelia  did  not  as  yet  fully  understand  what  her 
father  meant  by  these  last  words.  She  did  not  ex- 
pect so  mild  a  treatment;  she  went  up  to  her  pa- 
rents with  a  heavy  heart,  and  curtsying,  repeated 
afresh  her  promises  of  the  most  perfect  submission. 
In  effect,  she  kept  her  word  :  but,  alas,  her  punish- 
ment followed  very  soon,  as  her  father  had  told  her. 
The  wicked  Nancy  spread  the  most  infamous  sto- 
ries concerning  her.  She  told  all  that  had  passed 
between  her  and  Amelia,  and  added  a  thousand 
falsehoods  beside.  She  said,  that  Amelia,  by  the 
humblest  entreaties,  and  by  the  force  of  presents 
which  she  had  stolen  from  her  parents,  had  labour- 
ed so  long  to  corrupt  her,  that  at  length  she  suffer- 
ed herself  to  be  persuaded  to  procure  her  secret 
meetings  with  her  cousin  Henry  ;  that  they  saw 
each  other  every  evening,  unknown  to  their  pa- 


DECEPTION.  85 

rents;  and  Amelia  often  came  home  very  late. 
These  things  she  related  with  circumstances  so 
odious,  that  every  one  conceived  the  most  disad- 
vantageous ideas  of  Amelia.  She  was  obliged  to 
suffer  the  most  cruel  mortifications  on  this  subject. 
Whenever  she  entered  a  party  of  her  little  friends, 
she  saw  them  all  whisper  each  other,  and  look  at 
her  with  an  air  of  contempt,  and  an  insulting  smile. 
If  ever  she  staid  somewhat  late  in  a  company,  they 
would  say,  "  It  is  plain,  she  waits  here  until  the 
hour  of  her  appointment."  Had  she  a  fashionable 
riband,  or  an  elegant  dress,  they  would  say, 
"  Whenever  any  body  gets  her  mother's  keys,  she 
may  buy  what  she  pleases."  In  short, upon  the  least 
difference  between  her  and  any  of  her  companions, 
"  Don't  talk,  miss  !"  they  would  say.  "  Thinking 
of  your  cousin  Henry  confuses  your  ideas." 

These  reproaches  were  so  many  stabs  to  the 
heart  of  Amelia.  Often,  when  she  was  quite  over- 
whelmed with  grief,  she  would  throw  heiself  into 
her  mother's  arms,  and  seek  for  comfort  there. 
Her  mother  generally  answered  her,  "  Suffer  with 
patience,  my  dear  child,  what  your  imprudence  has 
brought  on  you.  Pray  to  God  to  forget  your  fault, 
and  to  shorten  the  time  of  your  mortifications. 
These  reproofs  will  be  of  service  to  you  all  your 
life,  if  you  can  profit  by  them.  God  has  said  to 
children,  Honour  your  father  and  your  motherland 
submit  in  all  things  to  their  will.  This  command- 
ment is  meant  for  their  happiness.  Poor  children! 
you  know  not  the  world  yet.  You  cannot  foresee  the 

vol.  2.         8 


86  DECEPTION. 

consequences  that  your  actions  may  draw  after 
them.  God  has  committed  the  care  of  guiding  you, 
to  your  parents,  who  love  you  as  themselves,  and 
who  have  more  experience  and  reflection  to  ward 
off  every  danger  from  you.  This  you  did  not  choose 
to  believe ;  but  you  now  experience  how  wisely 
God  requires  of  children  submission  to  their  pa- 
rents, since  you  have  suffered  so  much  by  disobe- 
dience. My  dear  Amelia,  let  your  misfortunes 
serve  for  your  instruction  !  It  is  the  same  with  all 
commandments.  God  prescribes  to  us  only  what 
is  advantageous:  he  forbids  only  what  is  perni- 
cious. We  act  therefore  to  our  own  hurt  whenev- 
er we  do  what  is  wrong.  You  will  often  find  your- 
self in  circumstances,  when  it  will  be  impossible 
to  foresee  how  much  vice  may  injure  you,  or  how 
much  virtue  may  profit  you.  Recollect  then  what 
you  have  suffered  by  one  single  fault,  and  regulate 
all  the  actions  of  your  life  upon  this  unerring  prin- 
ciple :  Every  action  which  is  contrary  to  virtue,  is 
contrary  to  our  own  happiness. 

Amelia  punctually  obeyed  the  wise  advice  of  her 
mother.  The  more  she  was  obliged  to  suffer  the 
consequences  of  her  imprudence,  the  more  reserved 
she  became,  and  attentive  to  her  own  behaviour. 
She  profitted  so  well  by  this  disgrace,  that  through 
the  prudence  of  her  conduct,  she  stopped  the 
mouths  of  all  who  inclined  to  speak  ill  of  her,  and 
obtained  the  name  of  the  irreproachable  Amelia. 


87 


THE    LITTLE    NEEDLEWOMEN. 

Clara,  with  Leonora  her  sister,  are  discovered 
working  in  their  room  :  Lucy  stands  by  Clara; 
and  Lucinda  enters  to  them. 

Lucinda.  Hard  at  work  !  How  melancholy  you 
all  look  !  I  thought  of  nothing  more  than  finding  you 
at  play  upon  the  snow.  Come,  come,  and  see  the 
trees  :  they're  powdered  just  for  all  the  world  like 
— what  d'ye  call  'ems. 

Clara.  No  :  we  would  not  leave  our  work  for 
any  pleasure  you  co-Id  name  us. 

Lit.  O,  I  frequently  leave  mine  for  nothing — 
But  you  have  not  long,  I  hope,  to  sit  here  moping. 

Leo.  We  were  moping,  as  you  call  it,  all  yester- 
day ;  and  have  again  been  at  it  ever  since  the  clock 
struck  seven. 

Lu.  My  stars  !  I  was  not  up  till  ten  :  and  in  the 
name  of  goodness  !  what  possesses  you,  to  work  at 
such  a  rate  ? 

Clara.  If  you  knew,  Lucinda,  who  we're  work- 
ing for,  I'm  sure  you'd  willingly  make  one  among  us. 

Lu.     No,  no,  Clara,  were  it  even  for  myself. 

Clara.  Yourself!  I  should  not  work,  thus  late 
and  early  with  such  spirits,  for  myself:  nor  you  I 
fancy,  Leonora. 

Leo.     No,  indeed. 

Lucy.     Guess  who  'tis  for. 

Lu.  Not  for  yourself,  you  say.  It  must  be  for 
your  dolls,  then. — I  have  guessed  it,   have   I  not  ? 


88  LITTLE    NEEDLE-WOMEN. 

Clara,  (shoiving  the  clothes  before  them.)  Yes, 
yes  ;  look  here,  and  see  if  these  will  fit  a  doll. 

Lu.  How  !  how  !  Why  here's  a  dress  com- 
plete ;  and  which  of  you  is  going  to  be  married  1 

Leo.  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ?  a  jacket  to  be 
married  in!  The  girl  has  nothing  in  her  head  but 
weddings,  and  will  never  guess. 

Lucy.  Well,  then  I'il  tell  you  who  'tis  for.  You 
know  those  two  poor  children  who  have  nothing  on 
but  rags  ? 

Lu.  What  ?  that  poor  woman  who  has  lately 
lost  her  husband,  and  can't  get  a  bit  of  bread  1 

Clara.  Yes,  yes ;  'tis  her  poor  children  we  are 
hard  at  work  for. 

Lu.  But  you  know  that  your  mamma  and  mine 
both  sent  her  money. 

Clara.  So  they  did  ;  but  there  were  debts  to  pay, 
and  bread  to  purchase.     As  for  clothes 

Leo.  We've  taken  that  upon  us. 

Lu.  But,  my  dear,  why  not  much  rather  send 
them  some  of  your  old  clothes  !  You  would,  in 
that  case,  spare  yourselves  a  deal  of  trouble. 

Clara.  How  you  talk  !  As  if  our  clothes  were 
fit  for  such  small  children  ! 

Lu.  That  I  know:  they  would  have  been  too  big, 
and  dragged  upon  the  ground  at  least  a  quarter  of  a 
yard  ;  but  then, their  mother  might  have  made  them 
less  herself. 

Clara.  She  cannot. 

Lu.  And  why  not  ? 

Leo.  (looking  steadfastly  upon  Lu.)  Because 
her  parents  never  taught  her  to  use  a  needle. 


LTTTLE    NEEDLE-WOMEN.  89 

Clara.  Now,  as  we  are  rather  ready  at  it,  we  de- 
sired mamma  would  let  us  have  some  dimity,  with 
other  stuff,  and  cut  us  out  the  necessary  patterns, 
promising  to  do  the  rest  ourselves. 

Leo.  And  when  the  whole  is  finished,  we  shall 
visit  t lie  poor  woman  with  it,  that  her  children  may 
be  dressed  a  little  warmly  this  cold  weather. 

Clara.  Now,  my  dear,  you  know  the  reason 
why  we  won't  go  and  play  upon  the  snow. 

Lu.  [with  a  stifled  sigh)  I'll  work  a  little  with 
you. 

Clara.  Aye,  I  said  so. 

Leo.  No,  no  ;  we  have  almost  done. 

Clara.  But  why  deprive  her,  Leonora,  of  so  great 
a  pleasure  ?  Look  here,  my  friend:  complete  this 
hem  :  but  you  must  sew  it  carefully. 

Lucy.  If  not,  my  sister  will  undo  it;  I  am  sure 
of  that. 

Lu,  What,  you  must  speak  too,  Miss  Whip- 
persnapper;  just  as  if  you  knew  what's  going 
forward. 

Clara.  How,  Lucinda  ?  Lucy,  I  assure  you,  has 
assisted  us  surprisingly.  JTwas  she  that  held  the 
stuff  while  we  were  cutting  it,  that  handed  us  the 
pincushion,  that  picked  up  our  thimbles  when  they 
fell.  Hold  here,  my  little  heart,  the  scissors  :  Leo- 
nora wants  them. 

Lu.   Look,  dear  Clara,  have  T  done  this  right  1 

Leo.  {laying  hold  of  the  work)  O  fie!  these 
stitches  are  a  mile  too  long,  and  all  awry. 

Clara.  'Tis  true  they  would  not  hold.  But  stay ; 
8 


90  LITTLE    NEEDLE-WOMEN. 

I'll  give  you  something  else. — Here,  pass  this 
bobbin  through  the  jacket  collar. 

Lu.  Aye,  aye  ;  this  I  shall  succeed  in  better. 

Leo.  (looking  over  her)  See !  see !  how  she 
sets  about  it, 

Clara.  Ah,  that's  all  my  fault,  that  I  did  not  tell 
her  how  it  should  be  done.  See  here,  my  dear  Lu- 
anda— in  this  manner.  i 

Lu.  I  was  never  taught  to  do  so  much  as  you  ; 
and  that's  the  reason  why  I'm  so  awkward. 

Leo.  (with  a  sneer)  O,  I  easily  believe  you. 

Clara.  But  don't  vex  her,  sister  :  she  has  done 
the  best  she  could.  Hold  !  let  me  look  a  little. 
How  1  you've  passed  the  bobbin  through  already. 
Look  you,  Leonora. 

Leo.  (pulling  the  bobbin)  What  a  pity  it  will  not 
stir.  A  mighty  clever  needle-woman,  truly  !  she 
does  nothing  else  than  make  us  work. 

Lu.  (sorrowfully)  Alas  !  I  know  no  better. 

Clara.  Don't  afflict  yourself,  my  dear  :  you  have 
the  best  of  wills  ;  and  we  have  nothing  more  to 
boast.  It  shall  be  quickly  put  to  rights.  I'll  do 
it  for  you.  There  :  the  matter's  settled.  Have 
you  finished;  Leonora  ? 

Leo.  Only  one  more  stitch: — And  then  to  cut 
the  thread  off. — There,  now  I'll  make  up  the  parcel 
(She  is  preparing  to  do  so,  when  Mrs.  Greenfield 
enters.) 

Lucy.   Here's  mamma. 

Mrs.G.  Well,  my  dears;  how  do  you  go  on? 
Perhaps  you  wish  for  my  assistance. 

Clara.  No,  mother ;  we've  finished. 


LITTLE    NEEDLE-WOMEJN.  91 

Mi's.  G.  Have  you  ?  Let  me  see  a  little. — Very 
well  indeed!  —  What,  my  Lucy!  I'm  afraid  you 
thought  the  time  tedious. 

Lucy.  O,  not  I,  mamma  :  I've  always  had  some 
little  thing  to  do  ;  ask  my  sisters. 

Clara.  Yes,  indeed  :  we  should  not  have  so 
quickly  ended,  but  for  her  assistance.  She  has 
never  quitted  us. 

Mrs.  G.  I'm  very  glad.  O  here's  our  little 
neighbour  too,  Lucinda.  She  must  have  helped 
you  a  good  deal. 

Leo.  (with  a  sneer)   She  tried  ;  but 

Clara.  We  had  almost  finished  when  she  came. 

Lucy.  She  made  a  stitch  or  two,  but  she  hardly 
knows  more  than  I:  had  you  but  seen,  mamma, 
how  crooked 

Clara.  Silence,  Lucy  ! 

M'-s.  G.  Come  ;  since  you've  been  so  very  dili- 
gent, I've  joyful  news  to  tell  you. 

Lucy.   What,  mamma? 

Mrs.  G.  The  two  poor  children  and  their  moth- 
er are  below.  I'll  send  up  the  little  ones,  that  you 
may  dress  them,  and  enjoy  the  astonishment  their 
mother  will  be  in,  when  she  observes  them  so  much 
altered. 

Clara.  Ah!  mamma,  how  you  increase  our  pleas- 
ures ! 

Lucy.  Shall  I  go  and  fetch  them  up  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Yes  ;  follow  me  ;  and  you  shall  come 
back  with  them.  In  the  mean  time  I'll  have  a  little 
conversation  with  the  mother,  and  contrive  how 
she  may  find  out  some  employment  for  the  time  to 


92  LITTLE    NEEDLE-WOMEN. 

come,  and  earn  a  little  money.  {She  goes  out  with 
Lucy.) 

Clara.  Slay  here  with  us,  Lucinda  :  we  shall 
want  your  help  ;  and  you  must  have  some  business 
at  our  toilet. 

Lu.  {embracing  Clara)  Ah,  my  friend,  you  have 
a  good  heart !  I  see  that  plainly. 

Leo.  I  have  had  a  fling  or  two  at  you,  Lucinda. 
Clara  makes  me  blush,  and  therefore  I  entreat  your 
pardon. 

Lu.  {embracing  Leonora  likewise)  Yes,  with  all 
my  heart. 

Clara.  I  hear  the  children  coming  up. 

Lucy  enters,  bringing  in   the  little   children, 
Madge  and  Joan. 

Lucy  {whispering  to  Clara.)  They'll  wonder 
much.     I  have  not  told  them  any  thing  about  it. 

Clara.  You  did  well :  their  pleasure  will  be  the 
greater,  and  ours  likewise. 

Leo.  I'll  take  Madge. 

Clara.  I  Joan. 

Lu.  And  Lucy  and  myself  will  hold  the  pincush- 
ions. (  They  begin  to  undress  them.) 

Madge  (crying.)  We  are  cold  enough  already. 
Will  you  take  away  the  little  clothes  we  have  left? 

Clara.  Don't  be  afraid, poor  thing  !  Come  hither. 
You  shall  see.  A  little  this  way  towards  the  fire. 
You  seem  very  cold. 

Madge.  Are  these  new  fine  clothes  for  us  1 

Joan.  O  bless  me  !  what  will  mother  say  ?  She'll 
take  us  for  your  sisters,  we  shall  be  so  fine  ? 


LITTLE    NEEDLE-WOMEN.  93 

Clara.  And  you  shall  be  our  sisters  for  the  time 
to  come  :  so  never  call  us  otherwise. 

Madge.  O,  good  young  lady,  we  are  your  ser- 
vants. 

Clara.  Let  me  have  your  arm — The  other. — But 
how  short  it  is  !  it  only  reaches  to  her  knees.  Well, 
harebrain,  (to  Leo.)  this  is  like  you  !  Don't  you 
see  you've  handed  me  the  little  jacket  ? 

Leo.  So  I  have,  indeed  ;  for  my  part  I  was  puz- 
zled likewise.  Madge's  feet  were  covered,  and  I 
could  not  see  her  head.  We  need  but  change. 
There's  Joan's. 

Clara.  Let's  be  as  quick  as  possible  ;  and  in  the 
mean  time,  Lucy,  do  you  run  and  ask  mamma  to 
come  up. 

Lucy.  I'm  gone.  (She  goes  out) 

Clara.  Ah,  now  all's  right.  Turn  round. — Once 
more.  That's  well  ;  now  take  each  other  by  the 
hand,  and  walk  across  the  room  before  us.  (  The 
children  do  so,  and  survey  themselves  with  pleasure.) 

Lu.  How  extremely  well  they're  fitted  !  they're 
quite  pretty;  and  there's  only  one  thing  wanted; 
a  handkerchief.     What  else?  their  hair. 

Leo.  A  comb,  to  untangle  it,  would  not  be  amiss. 
I'll  do  that,  Clara. 

Lucy  (runs  in  jumping)  Here's  mamma.  (Mrs. 
Greenfield  and  the  mother  of  the  children  enter.) 

Mother.  O,  heavens  !  what's  this  I  see  1  are  theso 
my  children  ?  O,  my  generous  lady  ! 

Ms.  G.  My  good  friend,  'tis  not  to  me  you  are 
indebted  for  this  happiness.  My  children  wished  to 
make  a  trial  of  their   skill   in  needle-work,  and  I 


94  LITTLE    NEEDLEWOMEN. 

permitted  them  to  do  so.  (Examining  the  chil- 
dren's jackets)  Not  so  bad,  considering  'tis  the  first 
attempt;  you  might  almost  set  up  for  yourselves. 

M dher  (to  Clara  and  her  sister.)  My  charming 
ladies,  let  me  thank  you.  God  will  recompense 
your  kindness,  for  I  cannot.  (Perceiving  Lucinda 
at  a  distance)  Pardon  me,  my  little  lady  ;  for  I  did 
not  see  you  ;  otherwise  I  would  have  paid  you  also 
ray  acknowledgments. 

Lv.  (sighing)  No,  no.  I  had  no  hand  in  this 
day's  business. 

Mrs,  G.  Do  not,  upon  that  account,  afflict  your- 
self, my  child.  By  sighing,  you'll  get  nothing  ;  but 
by  steadfastly  resolving,  every  thing.  However, 
tell  me,  don't  you  think  it  useful  and  delightful  for 
a  young  lady,  like  you,  to  accustom  herself  early  to 
work  of  some  sort  or  other? 

Lu.    Certainly  I  think  so. 

Mrs.  G.  Of  what  real  pleasure,  even  at  present, 
are  you  not  deprived,  by  having  hitherto  neglected 
an  employment,  so  adapted  to  your  sex  and  age  ? 

Mother.  Dear  little  lady,  learn  betimes,  if  you 
would  be  considered  provident  or  prudent,  to  love 
work  ;  or  it  will  very  soon  be  too  late.  I  should 
be  very  happy  now,  had  any  one  but  given  me  such 
a  lesson  in  my  childhood.  I  could  now  have  got 
my  bread,  and  been  of  use  to  those  dependent  on 
me  for  support,  instead  of  being  burthensome  to 
worthy  people. 

Mrs.  G.  Truly,  my  good  friend,  it  would  have 
been  much  happier  for  you,  I  must  own,  although 
1  should  have   lost  the  pleasure  of  assisting  you, 


THE    LAMB.  P5 

But  you  are  yet  full  young  enough  to  make  up  for 
lost  time,  by  application  to  some  honest  labour. 
Children,  you  must  know,  I  have  procured  her  some 
employment  at  a  weaver's  in  the  neighbourhood  ; 
and  when  she  happens  to  have  nothing  to  do  there, 
she  is  to  come  and  work  here  in  the  garden. 

Lucy.  I  am  very  glad  of  that ;  for  I'll  go  too 
and  help  her,  if  I  am  but  able. 

M>s.  G  With  respect  to  Madge  and  Joan,  I 
mean  my  house  shall  be  their  school ;  and  you  have 
(to  Clara  and  Leonora)  boih  deserved  to  be  their 
mistresses  in  work  and  reading. 

Lu.     And  may  I  be  their  assistant,  madam  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Willingly,  if  your  mamma  consents  ;  in 
which  case  you  and  Lucy  shall  endeavour  to  outdo 
each  other.  (To  the  woman)  My  good  friend,  are 
you  contented  that  matters  should  be  as  I  have  set- 
tled ? 

Mother.  Contented  ?  My  benevolent  and  gene- 
rous lady,  1  shall  owe  you  all  my  happiness,  and 
that,  too,  of  my  destitute  and  friendless  children. 
Dear  good  angels,  give  God  thanks  for  having  bles- 
sed you  with  so  careful  a  mother,  that  trains  you 
thus  betimes  to  diligence.  You  see  it  is  the  source 
of  comfort  to  yourselves  and  to  us  too. 


THE    LAMB. 

Little  Flora,  the   daughter  of  a  poor  country- 
man, was  seated   one  morning  by  the  side  of  the 


96  THE    LAMB.  , 

road,  holding  on  her  lap  a  porringer  of  milk  for  her 
breakfast,  in  which  she  sopped  a  few  slices  of 
coarse  black  bread.  Just  then  a  farmer  was  pass- 
ing the  road,  who  had  in  his  cart  about  a  score  of 
lambs  that  he  was  going  to  sell  at  the  market. 
These  poor  creatures,  crowded  one  upon  the  oth- 
er, with  their  feet  tied  together,  and  their  heads 
hanging  down,  filled  the  air  with  plaintive  bleat- 
ings,  which  pierced  the  heart  of  Flora,  but  were 
heard  by  the  farmer  with  an  ear  of  unconcern. 

When  he  was  come  up  opposite  to  the  little 
country  girl,  he  threw  down  before  her  a  lamb, 
which  he  was  carrying  across  his  shoulder. — 
"  There,  my  girl,  said  he,  is  a  good-for-nothing 
beast  that  has  just  died,  and  made  me  five  shil- 
lings the  poorer.  Take  it,  if  you  will,  and  make 
a  stew  of  it." 

Flora  quitted  her  breakfast,  laid  down  her  por- 
ringer and  her  bread,  and  taking  up  the  lamb,  be- 
gan to  examine  it  with  looks  of  compassion. 
"  But,"  said  she  immediately,  "why  should  I  pity 
you  ?  To-day  or  to-morrow,  they  would  have  run  a 
great  knife  through  your  throat,  while  now  you 
have  nothing  more  to  fear." 

While  she  was  speaking  thus,  the  lamb,  revived 
by  the  warmth  of  her  arms,  opened  its  eyes  a  little, 
made  a  slight  motion,  and  cried  ban  faintly,  as  if  . 
it  was  calling  its  mother.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
express  the  little  girl's  joy.  She  covered  the  lamb  • 
with  her  apron,  and  over  that  with  her  petticoat, 
bent  her  breast  down  to  warm  it  still  more,  and 
blowed   with   all   her  force  into  its   nostrils   and 


THE    LAMB.  97 

mouth.  She  felt  the  poor  animal  stir  by  degrees, 
and  at  each  of  its  motions,  she  felt  her  own 
heart  throb.  Encouraged  by  this  first  success,  she 
crumbled  some  soft  bread  into  her  porringer,  and 
taking  it  up  in  her  fingers,  with  some  difficulty 
forced  it  between  its  teeth,  which  were  shut  fast. 
The  lamb,  which  was  dying  only  through  hunger, 
felt  itself  a  litt'e  strengthened  by  this  nourishment. 
It  began  now  to  stretch  its  limbs, to  shake  its  head; 
to  wag  its  tail,  and  to  prick  up  its  ears.  It  had 
soon  strengih  to  support  itself  upon  its  legs,  and 
then  went  of  its  own  accord  to  Flora's  porringer, 
who  smiled  to  see  it  drink  up  her  breakfast.  In 
short,  before  a  quarter  of  an  hour  was  past,  it  had 
already  played  a  thousand  little  gambols. 

Flora,  transported  with  joy,  took  it  up  in  her 
arms,  and.  running  to  the  cottage,  showed  it  to  her 
mother.  Baba  (so  she  named  it)  became  from 
that  moment  the  sole  ohject  of  her  care  She 
shared  with  it  thn  little  bread  which  was  given  her 
for  her  meals,  and  wo^ild  not  have  exchanged  it 
singly  for  the  largest  flock  in  the  neighbourhood. 
Baba  was  so  gratefully  sensible  of  her  fondness, 
that  she  never  quitted  Flora  for  a  single  step  :  she 
would  come  to  eat  out  of  her  hand,  would  frisk 
round  her,  and  whenever  she  was  obliged  to  go  out 
without  her,  would  bleat  most  pitifully. 

This  was  not  the  only  recompence  with  which 
Providence  repaid  Flora's  humanity.  Baba  brought 
forth  young  lambs,  and  these,  others,  in  their  turn  : 
so  that   in  a  few  years  after,  Flora  had  a  pretty 

vol.  2.        9 


THE    BUTTERFLY. 


flock  that  nourished   her   family    with   good  food, 
and  furnish 
their  wool. 


and  furnished  them  with  comfortable  clothing  from 


THE  BUTTERFLY. 

Butterfly,  pretty  butterfly  !  come  and  rest  on 
the  flower  that  I  hold  in  my  hand  ! 

Where  go  you,  little  simpleton  1  See  you  not 
that  hungry  bird  that  watches  you  1  His  beak  is 
sharpened,  and  already  open  to  receive  you.  Come, 
come  then,  hither;  he  will  be  afraid  of  me,  and 
he  will  not  then  dare  approach  you. 

Butterfly,  pretty  butterfly  !  come  and  rest  on  the 
flower  that  I  hold  in  my  hand  ! 

1  will  not  pull  off  your  wings,  nor  torment  you  : 
no,  no,  no  ;  you  are  little  and  helpless,  like  myself. 
I  only  wish  to  look  at  you  nearer.  I  want  to  see 
your  little  head,  and  to  examine  your  long  body, 
and  your  spread  wings,  mottled  and  speckled  with 
a  thousand  different  colours. 

Butterfly,  pretty  butterfly  !  come  and  rest  on  the 
flower  that  I  hold  in  my  hand  ! 

I  will  not  keep  you  long  ;  I  know  you  have  not 
long  to  live.  When  the  summer  is  over,  you  will 
be  here  no  more  ;  but  I  shall  only  then  be  six 
years  old. 

Butterfly,  pretty  butterfly  !  come  and  rest  on  the 
flower  that  I  hold  in  my  hand  !  you  have  not  a  mo- 
ment to  lose  from  enjoying  this  short  life,  but  you 
may  feed  and  regale  yourself  all  the  time  that  I 
look  at  you. 


VETERAN  DISMISSED    WITH    HONOUR. 


Bertram  a'one,  sitting  for  a  little  while  profoundly  thoughtful  on  th  trunk 
of  a  tree,  hen  getting  up  and  walking.  «  Why  should  he  des.re  to  set  papa  a 
singing  V 


101 


THE   VETERAN   DISMISSED    WITH 
HONOUR. 

A  DRAMA    IN    ONE   ACT. 

characters. 

Lord  Cornwallis. 

Officer,  attending  him. 

Captain  Harlow. 

Mrs.  Harlow. 

Bertram, 

Cecilia, 

Helen,  their  Children. 

The  Scene  is  at  the  entrance  of  a  grove,  before 
the  house  of  Captain  Harlow,  somewhat  distant 
from  the  road. 

SCENE  I.     Bertram  and  Cecilia. 

Cecilia  is  discovered  sitting  on  a  fallen  tree,  pick- 
ing strawberries.  Bertram  brings  her  others, 
and  both  hats  that  hold  the  strawberries  are  neat- 
ly lined  with  leaves. 

Ber.  Look,  sister,  we  shall  quickly  have  enough. 

Ce.c.  I  don't  know,  Bertram,  how  I  shall  dispose 
of  mine;  my  hat  is  too  full  already. 

Ber.  It  can't  be  long  before  Helen  brings  the 
bushel !  and  indeed  she  might  have  gone  into  the 
house,  found  one,  and  returned  in  much  less  time 
9* 


102  TETERAN  DISMISSED. 

than  this.  However,  in  the  interval,  Cecilia,  put 
them  in  your  apron. 

Cec.  Yes,  yes  ;  that  would  make  a  fine  business 
indeed.  To  spot  it  all  from  top  to  bottom  !  What 
do  you  suppose  mother  would  say  ?  and  therefore  I 
have  thought  of  something  else.  Your  hat  is  big- 
gest; so  I'll  add  my  strawberries  toyour's,  and  you 
shall  gather  more,  while  I  am  picking  these. 

Ber.  Well  said,  indeed  ;  and  in  the  interim, 
Helen  cannot  fail  to  come,  and  then  we  shall  have 
enough. 

Cec.  When  they  are  all  together,  we  shall  see. 

Ber.  What's  over  when  the  baskets  are  filled, 
we'll  take  ourselves. 

Cec.  I  think  we  shall  not  have  much  appetite  to 
taste  them  afterwards.  Ah,  brother!  'tis  the  last 
time  we  shall  eat  with  our  father  this  year,  and  who 
can  tell  that  we  shall  ever  see  him  more ! 

Ber.  O  don't  be  dejected,  sister.  In  a  battle  it 
is  not  every  one  that's  killed. 

Cec.  O  frightful  war  !  if  men  were  not  so  wicked, 
but  would  love  each  other,  as  we  do 

Ber.  Mighty  fine,  indeed  !  And  don't  we  quar- 
rel every  day  for  trifles  ?  We  each  think  we're  in 
the  right;  and  frequently  it  would  puzzle  one  to 
find  out  which  is.  ?Tis  just  the  same  among  grown 
men. 

Cec.  They  ought  at  least,  then,  to  be  friends  again 
as  soou  as  we  are.  Our  worst  quarrels  never  come 
to  bloodshed. 

Ber.  No  ;  because  our  parents  settle  them  :  but 
men,  Cecilia,  are  not  children  ;  and  won't  let  them- 


VETERAN  DISMISSED.  103 

selves  be  governed,  if  they  have  fire  arms.  How- 
ever, should  we  suffer  any  one  to  do  us  wrong  with- 
out resisting? 

Cec.  You  are  always  talking  like  a  soldier  ! 

JBer.  A  good  reason  why, because  I  am  to  be  one. 
Look  ye,  sister  ;  notwithstanding  any  thing  you  say 
against  it,  war  is  a  very  charming  thing.  Without 
it  how  do  you  imagine  we  should  live  r  for  would 
the  little  our  father  has,  be  sufficient  to  support  us? 
But  don't  weep.     You  grieve  me. 

Cec.  Let  me  weep,  dear  brother,  while  we  are 
alone.  I  would  much  rather  do  so  here,  than  in 
the  presence  of  father,  it  would  afflict  him. 

Ber.  Come,  come  ;  dry  your  eyes,  and  set  to 
work  for  some  amusement.     I'll  go  fill  your  hat. 

Cec.  Go  that  way  ;  f<>r  we  have  left  none  here- 
abouts. (Bertram  goes  out)  I  would  I  were  but 
learned  enough,  that  I  might  pray  to  God,  for  he 
would  hear  me.  Or  at  least,  if  1  were  big  enough, 
I  would,  in  that  case,  go  to  court,  and  fall  before 
the  king;  and  he,  I'm  sure,  would  grant  me  my 
father's  dismission,  when  I  begged  and  prayed  him 
to  oblige  me.  He  has  served  his  country  long 
enough,  I  think.  (She  sets  about  picking  straw- 
berries.) 

Enter  Lord  Cornwall-is,  and  the  Officer. 
Lord  C.  (whispering  the  officer)  Yonder  is  the 
house  we  were  directed  to,  where  Captain  Harlow 
lives.  But  what  charming  little  girl  is  that?  I'll 
stop  and  have  some  conversation  with  her,  please 
not  address  me  by  my  name.     (To  Cecilia,  tapping 


104  VETERAN  DISMISSED. 

her  upon  the  shoulder)  Why  you  are  very  hard  at 
work,  I  see,  my  pretty  child. 

Cpc.    O,  sir,  you've  frightened  me. 

Lord  C.  1  ask  your  pardon  then,  my  dear.  I 
did  not  mean  to  do  so.  And  for  whom  are  you 
preparing  all  those  strawberries  ?  They  cannot 
but  be  very  good,  I  fancy,  being  picked  by  such  a 
plump  and  snowy  hand. 

Cec.  (holding  out  the  hat)  I  beg,  then,  you  will 
take  some,  sir.  Don't  be  afraid  ;  for  they  are  very 
clean.  I  only  wish  1  had  a  better  plate  to  put 
them  in.  (Lord  C.  takes  two  or  three,  as  well  as 
his  attendant.) 

Lord  C.  I  never  tasted  better:  do  you  sell  them, 
my  dear  ? 

Cec.  No,  sir  ;  though  you  were  to  give  me  —  I 
can?t  tell  how  much. 

Lord  C.  You  are  in  the  right ;  they  are  above 
all  value,  being  gathered  by  so  sweet  a  little  hand. 

Cr.  Fie  !  how  you  talk,  sir !  but  'tis  not  for 
that :  they  should  be  at  your  service,  were  they  not 
intended  for  my  dear  papa  (wiping  her  eyes).  We 
have  not  gathered  any  for  him  yet,  this  season  ; 
and  perhaps  these  will  be  the  last  he  is  to  eat. 

Lord  C  What,  my  dear,  he's  ill  then  1  and  you 
think  he'll  not  live  1 

Officer.  It  is  to  be  hoped,  his  illness  is  not  yet 
desperate,  since  he  thinks  of  eating  strawberries. 

Cec.  No,  not  that.  'Tis  true,  indeed,  he  has 
been  troubled  with  the  rheumatism  all  last  winter, 
to  a  very  great  degree  ;  and  is  not  yet  quite  cured. 
But  cured  or  not,  he  must  set  out  to-morrow. 


VETERAN  DISMISSED.  105 

LordC.  And  why, pray?  is  his  departure  so  need- 
ful? 

Cec.  O,  because  his  regiment  then  goes  through 
the  village  ;  and  he  must  join  it  on  the  march. 

Lord  C.   His  regiment? 

Cec.  Yes,  my  Lord  Cornwallis's,  that's  going  to 
America. 

Lord  C.  (aside  to  (he  officer)  This  must  be  one 
of  Captain  Harlow's  children. 

Cec.  (having  heard  him)  Yes,  that's  my  father. 
And  do  you  know  him  ? 

Lord  C.  Know  him  ?  Why  this  gentleman  and 
I  are  his  comrades. 

Cec.  What !  and  is  the  regiment  then  so  near? — 
Will  it  go  through  the  town  to-day  ? 

Lord  C.  No,  no ;  not  till  to-morrow.  We  are 
come,  my  dear  before  it;  and — and  (aside  to  the 
officer)  What  excuse  can  I  invent  to  serve  my  pur- 
pose ? — And  a  wheel  belonging  to  our  carriage  be- 
ing broken  hard  by,  we  thought  to  get  a  little  shade 
here  while  it  was  mending.  And  now  every  thing, 
I  fancy,  must  be  set  to  rights.  This  path,  I  take  it, 
leads  directly  to  the  road  again  1 

C'C  N<»,  sir;  it  takes  you  to  the  village. 

L'ird  C.  And  the  village,  I  suppose,  belongs  to 
your  father  ? 

Cec.  Belongs  to  him  ?  I  wish  he  wpreso  rich  :  no, 
he  has  nothing  but  a  little  cottage,  with  a  garden, 
this  small  grove,  and  yonder  meadow.  When  he's 
not  from  home,  he  passes  all  his  time  here  with  us. 

Lord  C.   He  was  ill  then,  in  the  winter? 

Cec.    Yes,  indeed,   sir,  to  our  sorrow  ;  and   he 


106  VETERAN  DISMISSED. 

could  not  move  a  limb.  Besides,  a  wound  which 
he  received  many  years  ago,  below  the  temple,  has 
broken  out  afresh.  And  now  that  he  is  almost  well 
he  must  go  again  to  meet  with  new  misfortunes. 

Lord  C.  Why,  in  such  a  situation,  does  he  not 
sell  out?"  He  might  procure  sufficient  attestations 
from  the  surgeon. 

Cec.  O,  mother  did  that  in  private  for  him  ;  but 
her  letters  never  yet  were  answered.  Certainly 
the  king  refuses  to  believe  her;  or  perhaps,  that 
Lord  Comwallis  who  commands  the  regiment  is  so- 
cruel 

Lord  C.  Truly,  I  believe  Lord  Comwallis  would 
not  like  to  lose  so  good  an  officer  as  your  father, 
by  whose  instructions  myself  and  all  the  younger 
officers  may  learn  so  much. 

Cec.  And  yet,  you  don't  appear  so  very  young  ; 
but  are  your  father  and  mother  still  living  ? 

Lord  C  {a  little  disconcerted)  Do  you  doubt  it  1 

Cec.  O  I  warrant  you,  they  cried  at  parting 
with  you.  How  could  they  consent  to  lose  you  ?  I 
remember  how  much  grief  it  caused  mother  and  us, 
when  first  my  eldest  brother  went  abroad  to  study  ; 
and  that's  nothing  in  comparison  with  war. 

L'»-d  C.  I  can't  tell  that  ;  I  have  left  them,  after 
many  separations :  in  which  case  'tis  nothing  to 
leave  one  another.  And  besides,  when  first  I  went 
to  camp,  my  father  went  with  me. 

Cec.  Did  he  ?  O,  those  fathers,  that  are  soldiers 
themselves,  are  a  little  hard,  I  can  tell  you,  but  yet 
that's  not  the  case  with  my  father.  He's  very  in- 
dulgent !     Why,  a  child  is  scarce  so  gentle  !     'Tis 


VETERAN  DISMISSED.  107 

on  the  point  of  honour  only  he  can  never  be  per- 
suaded ;  so  that  after  all,  I  fancy  he  is  to  blame, 
and  no  one  else,  for  still  remaining  in  the  service. 

Lord  C.  Aye,  indeed !  how  is  that  ? 

Cec.  Because  he  never  asked  for  dismission. 
He  is  ever  saying,  people  would  imagine  him  a  cow- 
ard, should  he  quit  the  service  during  war.  He 
only  wishes  he  may  always  have  strength  enough 
to  sit  on  horseback  ;  and  then  says  he'll  part  with 
every  drop  of  blood  he  has,  to  serve  his  country. 
Well,  he  will  be  satisfied  some  time  or  other;  but 
then  we  poor  children  shall  be  without  a  father. 

Lord  C.  Recollect,  your  father  has  been  hither- 
to preserved  from  danger;  and  why  should  he  not 
still  continue  as  safe  r  It  is  not  every  musket  that 
hits. 

Cec.  But  those  that  do,commonly  kill  their  man  ; 
and  in  the  number,  may  there  not  be  one  that  will 
reacli  papa  ? 

Lord  C.  That's  true  indeed  :  but  what  sweet 
little  lady  is  this  1 

Cec.  My  sister  Helen. 

Enter  Hflen. 
So,  Helen,  you  are  come  at  last,  I    see:    and  where 
have  you  been  staying  ? 

Heh'n.  VI  hy,  mother  would  make  me  help  her  do 
up  father's  portmanteau. 

Cec.  Where's  the  basket  ?  let  me  have  it,  sister. 

Helen.  Have  you  gathered  strawberries  enough 
to  fill  it  ? 

Cec.  You  shall  see.  (emptying  the  hat)  Your  par- 
don, gentlemen. 


108  VETERAN  DISMISSED. 

Lord  C.  O,  don't  mind  us.  (Whispering  the 
officer.)   What  lovely  children  ! 

Helm.  (whisperingCecilia)  Who  may  these  be  1 

Cee.  (whispering  Helen.)  Officers  in  Lord  Corn- 
wall's regiment. 

Helen.  Do  they  come  for  papa  ? 

Cec.  No,  no :  they  are  before  the  regiment, 
which  will  not  go  through  the  town  till  to-morrow, 
as  papa  expected. 

Helen.  Ah,  I  wish  all  the  officers,  together  with 
the  regiment,  at  Jericho. 

Cic.  Speak  lower,  Helen.  If  the  gentlemen 
should  hear  you 

Helen.  Let  them  hear  me,if  they  like  ir.  What  ! 
they  come  to  tnke  away  papa,  and  shall  not  we 
have  leave  to  make  complaint'? 

L  >>-d  C.  (whispering  the  officer)  Methinks  we 
arc  not  looked  upon  too  favourably  here. 

Officer.  Whv  then,  mv  lor  T  don't  you  diwlese 
yourself,  :.iul  mention  the  good  news  you  biiug  their 
fiil.err 

Lord  C.  No  Their  openness  delights  me  ;  as 
well  as  the  affection  they  evince  in  favour  of  their 
parents. 

CV.  (to  H  len)  Poor-Bertram's  hard  at  work, 
while  w.e  :ire  chattering  here,  without  once  think- 
injfo^Sfem.  I'll  be  gone,  and  help  him.  Helen, 
Stay  you  here,  and  take  care  how  you  speak  before 
these  gentlemen. 

Helm    Go,  go  ;  I  know  what's  proper. 

Cec.  Here's  my  sister  Helen  :  1  present  her  to 
you,  gentlemen. 


VETERAN  DISMISSED.  109 

Helen  [with  a  Utile  forwardness).  Your  servant, 
gentlemen. 

Lord  C.  She  has  a  countenance  as  resolute  as 
yours  is  timid. 

Cec.  She'll  stay  here  to  entertain  you,  gentlemen  ; 
for  I  must  run  and  help  my  brother  to  gather  straw- 
berries ;  so  that  all  of  us  may  go  back  sooner  to 
father.  Will  you  permit  me  to  inform  him  of  your 
visit  ? — He'll  be  very  happy  to  receive  you. 

Helen.  No  ;  he  won't  be  very  happy  to  receive 
y  ou,  nor  yet  any  one  among  us  ;  we  should  be  quite 
happy  were  we  left  alone  for  the  present. 

Cec.  1  hope  your  kindness  will  excuse  this  little 
madcap. 

Helen.  O  yes,  to  be  sure  !  Excuse  me  1  Why 
these  gentlemen  are  sensible  that  little  girls,  when 
strangers  are  at  table,  must  not  speak  a  word  ;  and 
I  have  twenty  thousand  things  to  tell  papa  at 
parting;  which  will  otherwise  go  near  to  break  my 
heart. 

Lord  C.  Dear  children,  don't  fear  any  thing:  you 
shall  not  be  disturbed  by  us  in  your  delightful  con- 
versation. (Cecilia  makes  a  grateful  curtesy  and 
withdraws.) 

Helen.  But  pray  tell  me,  gentlemen,  what  reason 
has  the  king  for  taking  away  a  good  father  from  us 
poor  children  ?  Does  he  think  we  don't  want  one  to 
bring  us  up  ? 

Lord  C.  No,  no  ;  but  then  do  you  think  he  don't 
want  good  soldiers  to  go  out  and  fight  ? 

Helen.  And  what  necessity  for  fighting  ?  Or  sup- 
10  vol.  2. 


110  VETERAN  DISMISSED. 

pose  there  should  be  any,  surely  our  papa,  when  he 
would  slay  at  home  to  give  his  children  a  good  edu- 
cation, is  not  useless  to  his  country. 

Lord  C.  No,  indeed  ;  especially,  my  pretty  little 
Helen,  if  his  otlur  little  ones  improve  as  much  as 
you  do. 

Helen.  I  believe  you  jest.  I  know  I  am  thought 
a  litile  forward  in  the  family  ;  and  I  have  heard  it 
said,  that  if  I  had  but  a  cockade,  I  could  not  fail  to 
make  a  tolerable  soldier. 

Lord  C.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  A  little  Amazon!  You 
would  become  a  perfect  hero  ! 

Helen.  I  can  tell  you,  if  I  only  had  a  sword,  I 
would  not  be  laughed  at. 

Lord  C.  Nay,  if  that  all,  here's  mine.  I'll  arm 
you  with  it. 

Helen.     Do.     I  should  be  very  glad. 
Lord  C.  (presenting  the  sword  and  stooping  to 
kiss  her)     This  is  the  first  ceremony. 

Helen  (keeping  him  off.)  Softly  !  softly  !  I  be- 
seech you,  sir. 

Lord  C.  (attempting  it  again)  O,  you  are  a 
charming  child  ! 

Helen  (running  from  him.)  Brother  !  sister  ! 
Lord  C.  Mighty  well,  miss  soldier;  you're  afraid 
of  me,  I  see  then. 

Helen.  I  afraid  of  you  !  O  no.  But  don't,  how- 
ever, come  too  near,  or  I  shall  run  and  fetch  papa. 
Papa's  an  officer  as  well  as  you  are  ;  and  won't  suf- 
fer any  one  to  hurt  his  little   Helen. 

Lord  C.  Heaven  forbid  1  should  design  to  hurt 
you  :  it  was  only  pleasantry. 


VETERAN  DISMISSED.  Ill 

Enter  Bertram. 

Ber.  (coming  boldly  forward)  You  cried  out  just 
now,  Helen  !    I  am  come  to  your  assistance. 

Lord  C.  Against  us.  my  little  friend? 

B^r.   Aye,  any  one  who  hurts  my  sister. 

Helen.  Thank  you,  brother  ;  but  1  did  not  mean 
to  cry  out  quite  so  loud,  and  have  no  need  of  your 
assistance  ;  for,  you  see,  there's  one  I  have  disarm- 
ed. However,  sir,  [returning  Lord  C.  his  sword) 
this  once  I  grant  you  quarter.  But  don't  come  too 
near  in  future.     I  believe  you  understand  me  ? 

Lord  C.  Why,  1  declare,  you  are  an  extraordi- 
nary little  creature  ! 

Cec.  I  am  charmed  to  hear  you  talk  so  ;  but, gen- 
tlemen, we  have  gathered  strawberries  enough  to 
share  some  with  you.  (Presenting  them  the  bushel) 
Take  a  few,  let  me  request  you. 

Lord  C.  No,  indeed  ;  we  don't  intend  to  touch 
them;  they've  a  destination  too  respectable,  for  us 
to  think  of  making  free  with  any. 

Cec.  Those  you  take,  will  all  be  from  our 
share  ;  and  no  harm  done,  should  we  go  without. 
You  are  in  papa's  own  regiment  ;  and  'tis  fitting 
we  should  treat  you  with  as  much  respect  as  we  are 
able. 

Helen,  (taking  a  nosegay  out  of  her  bosom,  and 
presenting  it  to  Lord  C)  Ah  !  on  that  account,  I'll 
beg  you  to  accept  this  nosegay  I  had  gathered  for 
myself.  Papa  and  mamma  have  each  had  one,  or  I 
could  not  have  given  you  this  :  but  it  belongs  to  me, 
sir,  and  I  give  it  you. 


112  VETERAN  DISMISSED. 

Lord  C.  And  I,  my  dear,  accept  it  with  the  great- 
est pleasure. 

Helen.  It  is  somewhat  faded  by  the  sun  ;  but  if 
you  will  stay  a  little,  I'll  gather  you  some  jessamine, 
violets,  and  jonquils,  in  my  garden. 

Cec.  Helen,  you  remember,  I  believe,  the  rose- 
bush before  my  window  :  you  may  gather  all  the 
roses  that  are  blown  upon   it. 

Helen.  Well,  sir,  shall  11 

Lord  C.  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness,  my  dear 
child  !  but  no,  the  pleasure  of  conversing  wiih  you 
entertains  me  more  than  all  the  roses  in  the  universe. 

Helen.  I  have  a  notion  strikes  me.  Fossibly,  you 
know  what  method  an  officer  should  take  to  quit  the 
service  honourably.  Could  you  not  afford  us  some 
good  counsel  to  procure  papa's  dismission  ? 

Cec.  If  you  could,  we  should  be  very  glad  to  give 
you  every  thing  we  have. 

Her.  (who  has  hitherto  amused  himself  by  play- 
ing with  the  hilt  of  Lord  C's.  sword,  and  looking 
at  his  uniform)  O  yes,  if  you  could  only  tell  us  how 
to  keep  papa  at  home,  my  drum,  spontoon,  cartouch- 
box,  and  accoutrements,  should  all  be  your's. 

Helen  (looking  down  with  a  smile.)  And  1  will 
give  you  freely,  what  you  sought  just  now  to  take 
by  force. 

Lord  C.  So  many  charming  things  at  once  !  Be- 
lieve me,  if  I  did  but  know 

Cec.  (sorrowful)  You  did  but  know  !  So  then  we 
only  make  things  worse,  and  grieve  you  that  you 
cannot  be  of  service  to  us. 

Helen.     O,   I   don't  give    up    so    soon.      Lord 


VETERAN  DISMISSED.  113 

Cornwnllis,  colonel  of  the  regiment,  will  very  soon 
pass  this  way.  We  three  will  go  and  throw  our- 
selves before  him,  hang  upon  his  clothes,  and  not 
let  go  till  he  has  granted  our  desire. 

Cfc.  Yes,  sister,  he  shall  see  our  tears;  and  we 
will  tell  him  how  extremely  ill  papa  has  been  all 
winter  ;  how  sick  he  is  at  present  ;  and  how  much 
we  should  lament  his  going  from  us.  Do  you  think, 
he  would  be  so  cruel  as  to  send  us  from  him,  and 
not  grant  our  request? 

Lord  C.  1  cannot  think  that  of  him,  my  good 
friends  ;  but  if  he  is  not  already  thus  far  come  on  his 
way,  there's  room  to  fear  he  will  delay  setting  cut 
from  London  longer;  and  you  know,  in  that  case, 
you  would  lose  your  pains, as  your  papa  must  march 
to-morrow.  Happily,  however,there  is  a  gentleman, 
his  particular  friend,  who  can  do  every  thing,  as  if 
he  were  my  lord  himself;  and  he  is  at  present  with 
the  regiment,  serving  as  a  volunteer. 

Ber.  A  volunteer  1 

Lord  C.  Yes  ;  so  they  call  it !  one  whose  wish 
is  to  acquire  a  knowledge  of  the  art  of  war,  assist- 
ed by  my  lord's  instruction.  I  can  answer  for  it, 
he  will  grant  whatever  your  papa  may  wish. 

Cec.  And  is  he  your  friend  1 

Lord  C.  Yes,  truly. 

Or.  Then,  for  heaven's  sake,  sir,  speak  to  him  in 
papa's  behalf,  that  he  may  not  be  parted  from  his 
family,  who  live  by  his  means  ;  and  if  he  must  leave 
England,  do    soften,    if  you  can,  his  service;  and 

at  any  time  should  he  be  sick  or  wounded 

10* 


114  VETERAN  DISMISSED. 

Helen.  Wounded !  Don't  wait,  sir,  till  he  is 
wounded  ;  but  in  case  a  sabre  should  be  raised 
against  him,  run  in  and  save  him  from  the  blow. 

Lord  C.  (aside)  How  difficult  1  find  it  to  keep 
still  concealed! — No,  generous  little  girls,  fear 
nothing  :  I'll  be  answerable  for  his  safety  with  my 
life. 

Cec.  We  may  rely  upon  you,  then  ?  How  much 
you  charm  us,  sir  !  Yet  do  not  forget  to  speak  of 
him  to  the  volunteer,  you  just  now  mentioned.  I 
could  talk  further  to  you  on  this  subject  ;  but  your 
heart  will  tell  you  everything  I've  left  unsaid  ;  and 
our  papa,  whom  we  shall  lose  to-morrow,  must  be 
waiting  for  us. 

Lord  C.  Go,  dear  children  ;  but  first  take  some 
trifle  from  me,  as  a  recompense  for  that  agreeable 
half  hour  I've  spent  in  conversation  with  you.  Here, 
my  sweet  Cecilia,  take  this  ring,  it  is  a  little  too  big, 
but  may  soon  be  fitted  to  your  finger. 

Cec.  (refusing  the  ring)  No,  no,  sir,  mamma, 
perhaps,  would  be  displeased  ;  and  so,  too,  would 
papa,  whose  least  reproach  I  would  not  for  the 
world  deserve,  particularly  as  to-morrow  he  must 
leave  us. 

Lord  C.  You  must  absolutely  take  it.  Should 
he  be  displeased,  I'll  undertake  to  reconcile  him, 
when  he  joins  the  regiment,  if  I  cannot  by  my  speak- 
ing to  the  volunteer,  prevent  his  leaving  England. 

Cec.  (taking  it)  Well,  then,  he  shall  bring  it  you, 
in  that  case  ;  and  if  otherwise,  I  shall  be  very  happy 
to  remember  you  as  often  as  I  look  upon  it. 


VETERAN  DISMISSED.  115 

Helen.  Come,  come,  sister  :  'tis  high  time  we  be 
gone. 

Lord  C.  And  yon,  my  lovely  Helen,  I  suppose, 
would  not  be  sorry  to  remember  me  :  See,  here's  a 
copper  etui  gilt ;  and  at  the  top,  a  composition  stone  ; 
they  call  it  a  false  diamond. 

Helen  (looking-  at  it.)  Yes,  I  understand  you  : 
but  there's  nothing  false  about  it,  but  your  words. 
'Tis  gold,  I'm  certain,  and  a  real  diamond.  I  won't 
have  it.  You  have  been  plundering  for  it.  My 
papa's  a  captain,  sir,  as  well  as  you  ;  but  cannot 
make  such  presents,  for  he  never  went  a  plundering 
in  his  life. 

Lord.  C.  Take,  take  it :  there's  no  plundering  in 
the  case  :  It  would  be  useless  to  me  in  the  field,  and 
therefore,  if  you  will  not  have  it  as  a  present,  keep 
it  for  me,  till  such  time  as  I  return. 

Helen.   O,  that  I   will,  with  all  my  heart. 

Lord  C.  And  now,  perhaps,  you  have  a  kiss  to 
give  me  for  security. 

Helen.  No,  no  ;  I've  told  you  the  conditions. 

Lord  C.  Well,  then,  I'll  do  all  I'm  able  to  obtain 
them. 

Helen.  And  I'll  keep  the — you  know  what,  sir, 
till  that  time.      Come,  brother. 

Ber.  Go  first  :  I'll  follow  you  immediately.  I've 
something  I  would  say  in  private  to  the  gentleman. 

Lord  C.  I'll  speak  this  moment  with  you. 

(The  offirer,  who  some  little  time  before  had  with- 
drawn, returns,  and  gives  Lord  C.  a  pocket-book  ; 
they  whisper.) 


116 


VETERAN  DISMISSED. 


Helen  (whispering  Bertram.)  What!  and  should 
you  like  h  p,  esent  too? 

Cec.  (in  a  whisper  likewise)  Fie,  fie,  brother  ! 
I  should  never  have  suspected  you  of  so  much 
meanness. 

Her.  And  fie  you^  sisters,  that  can  entertain  so 
mean  a  notion  of  your  brother  !  [  have  something 
very  different,  and  much  more  important,  I  should 
like  to  ask  about. 

Helen.  Well  now,  if  I  were  in  a  merry  mood,  I 
could  not  but  laugh,  at  the  gravity  with  which  you 
speak  of  your  important  something. 

Ber.  Aye,  and  were  you  not  my  sister,  I  would 
make  you  squeak,  Miss  Saucebox,  for  suspecting 
me. 

Helen  (going  out  with  Cecilia  )  Well,  manage 
your  important  something  properly. 

SCENE  II. 

Lord  Cornwallis,   Officer,  and  Bertram. 

Lord  C.  I  am  glad,  dear  Bertram,  you  desire  to 
stay.  We  were  not  quite  acquainted  :  but  at  pre- 
sent, and  particularly  as  my  friend  here  tells  me 
they  have  not  yet  repaired  my  chriise,  we  shall  have 
some  more    minutes   to    talk    with  each  other. 

Ber.  So  we  shall:  but  don't  imagine  I  remain 
here  to  get  something  from  you. 

Lord  C.  How  ? 

Br.  Because  you  give  my  sisters  each  a  present, 
you  might  fancy  I  want  one:  but  I  protest,  sir,  I 
shall  not  take  any  thing. 


VETERAN  DISMISSED.  117 

Lord  C.  Unluckily  for  me,  I  have  nothing  I 
can  offer  you. 

Ber.  Unluckily?  I'm  glad  you  have  not;  for 
now,  neither  can  be  tempted. 

Lord  C.  (aside  to  the  officer)  I  am  charmed  with 
his  disinterestedness,  and  never  saw  a  handsomer 
figure  ! 

Ber.   I  have  but  one  question,  sir,  to  ask  you. 

Lord  C.  And  what's  that,  my  friend  1 

Ber.  You  told  my  sister,  a  gentleman  was  with 
the  army  as  a  volunteer  ?  Pray  what's  a  volunteer? 

Lord  C.  A  volunteer's  a  soldier  that  may  fight 
or  noi,  just  as  he  chooses. 

Ber.  O,  if  I  were  to  turn  soldier,  it  should  be  to 
fight  ;  and  I  would  gladly  be  a  volunteer  on  that 
condition. 

Lord  C.  But  a  volunteer  must  have  a  deal  of  mo- 
ney :  hive  you  any  ? 

Ber.  No;  but  then  the  king  has.  And  pray  is  not 
he  obliged  to  keep  his  soldiers  ? 

Lord  C.  No;  for  as  a  volunteer  is  not  obliged  to 
fight,  it  is  but  just  he  should  subsist  himself. 

Ber.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  this  ;  but  if  I  wanted  only 
biead  and  water,  or  should  beg  the  regiment  to  re- 
ceive me,  sir,  instead  of  my  papa  ; — what  then  ? 

Lord  C.  Poor  child  !  and  what  sort  of  a  figure 
would  you  cut  before  a  company  ?  You  ought  to 
have  experience  and  authority. 

B^r.  If  I  havo  not  enough  of  either  to  command, 
I  must  have  surely  to  obey.  Let  me  be  anything, 
provided  1  may  serve. 


118  VETERAN  DISMISSED. 

Lord  C.  Would  you  be  capable  of  following  in 
the  march  ? 

Ber.  I'll  go  as  far  as  I  am  able  ;  and  when  tired, 
let  me  be  lifted  up  among  ihe  baggage  ;  or  I'll  ride 
upon  a  cannon.  Are  you  fearful  1  should  lag  be- 
hind ? 

Lord  C.  But  if  you  were  to  serve  instead  of  your 
father,  you  lemember  you  must  part  with  him,  as 
much  as  if  he  went  himself. 

Br.  And  don't  you  think  1  should  rejoice  to 
be  the  means  of  keeping  him  at  home  here,  with 
mamma  and  sisters?  You  would  lose  but  little  by 
such  a  change.  Unhappily,  my  dear  father  will 
not  be  able  to  serve  long;  and  I  shall  very  soon  be 
what  he  was.  I  love  a  soldier's  business  from  my 
heart.  I  know  a  great  many  marches,  and  can  play 
them  on  my  fife.  Look,  here's  a  book  of  songs  : 
'tis  called  the  Grenadier's  D>  light.  I'll  give  it 
you.      I  know  the  whole  by  heart. 

Lord  C.  (a.$id°  to  the  officer)  I  have  a  thought. 
[to  Bertram)  I  would  not  wish  a  better  present  : 
and  in  return,  Til  give  you,  not  indeed  a  book  of 
songs,  my  little  Bertram,  but  a  single  song. 

Ber.    A  song,  indeed,  I   may  accept  of. 

Lord  C  [feeling  in  his  pocket)  Stop,  in  the  first 
place,  here's  one  that  you  will  give  your  father. 

Ber.  O,  he  never  sings  now,  sir;  and  likes  no 
music  hut  the  cannon's. 

Lord  C.  That  don't  signify.  I'm  sure  you'li 
both  he  pleased  with  this,  even  if  you  do  but  read  it. 
And  here's  one  for  you.  [taking  a  paper  out  of  his 
pocket-book.) 


VETERAN  DISMISSED.  119 

B?r.  (jumping  for  joy)  O,  thank  you  !  Let  me 
see  if  I  know  ir. 

Lord  C.  \o,  nn,  Bertram  :  you  shall  read  them 
after  we  have  left  you.  (He  puts  the  two  papers  to- 
gether,  and  thrusts  them,  into  Bertram's  pocket) 
Let  me  put  them  in  your  pocket  :  and  take  care 
you  don't  lose  either.  .Now  farewell,  my  little  friend, 
and  since  you  love  a  soldier's  life,  I'll  have  you  for 
my  comrade. 

B;r.  (jumping  info  his  arms)  Yes,  I  will  he  so, 
I'll  always  love  you  ;  and  the  first  engagement  I  am 
in,  I'll  all  the  while  be  at  your  side. 

Officer.  We  will  go,  and  let  the  regiment  know 
you're  coming. 

Ber.  Do:  and  pray,  sir,  give  me  a  good  word. 

Lord  C.  (retiring  with  the  officer)  I  feel  how 
much  the  father's  heart  must  hleed  to  quit  such 
lovely  children  :  and  rejoice,  on  that  account,  to  be 
the  bearer  of  such  welcome  tidings  as  the  paper,  in 
Bertram's  pocket,  will  inform  him  of.  Let  us 
withdraw,  to  some  corner,  where  we  may,  unseen, 
remark  him.     (They  shelter  among  the  trees.) 

Bertram,  (alone,  gifting  for  a  while  profound- 
ly thoughtful  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree  :  then  getting 
up,  and  walking  to  and  fro)  Why  should  he  desire 
to  set  papa  a  singing  ?  {T,kin?  the  papers  out) 
Ha  !  this  paper's  sealed  .'—There's  something  fmmy 
in  it,  I  suppose.  So,  let  me  see  my  own.  Is  this 
a  song  ?  It  does  not  look  like  one.  The  words  go 
one  after  another,  all  aiong  the  line.  (R  ading) 
"I  promise  to  pay  to  Mr.  Abraham  Newland,  or 
bearer,  on  demand,  the   sum  of  fifty  pounds,'*     I 


120  VETERAN  DtSMlSSED. 

don't  know  any  tune  that  will  suit  these  words. 
(Reading  again)  "London,  December  1,  1787, 
for  the  Governor  and  Company  of  the  Bank  of 
England,  Philemon  Stacy."  He  meant  to  make  a 
foofof  me,  I  fancy,  in  calling  this  a  song.  'Tis  all 
about  money  !— Mr.  Captain  !  Mr.Captain  !  (Run- 
ning out.) 

SCENE  III. 
Bertram,  Captain  Barlow  (pale  and  feeble),  Mrs. 
Harlow,  Helen,  and  Cecilia. 
Capt.  H.   Where,  where  is  he  ?  (Perceiving  Ber- 
tram)    Bertram,  where's  my  lord  ? 

Ber.  (looking  about  him)  My  lord  !  I  have  not 
seen  the  least  bit  of  a  lord,  not  I. 

Helen.     That    handsome   gentleman    we   talked 

with. 

Cec.  He  who  gave  me  this  fine  ring.  Papa  says 
no  one  but  a  lord  could  make  so  rich  a  present. 

Ber.  (vexed)  Blockhead  as  I've  shown  myself,  in 
not  discovering  who  he  was ! 

Cec.    O  !    what  a  fine,  fine  gentleman  ! 

Helen.  So  good  and  so  familiar  !  O,  my  sweet 
etui!   I'll  keep  you  all  my  life-time  now. 

Capt.  H.   How  long  has  he  been  gone  ! 

Ber.  This  moment  1  was  running  after  him. 

Capt.  H.  To-morrow,  fortunately,  I  shall  join 
his  lordship  ;  for  it  must  be  Lord  Cornwallis  ;  it  is 
his  cypher  that's  engraved  on  the  etui  ;  and  I  can 
tell  him  then,  how  much  my  children  are  obliged  to 
his  benevolence.  I  am,  however,  sorry  I  h.id  not 
an  opportunity  of  asking  hira  to  lodge  one  night 


VETERAN   DISMISSED.  121 

with  us.  Should  you  not  have  been  rejoiced  to  en- 
tertain him,  children  ? 

Ber.  0  yes,  yes,  papa.  He  called  me  comrade, 
when  he  took  his  leave. 

Helen.  For  my  part,  though  I  like  him,  yet  I'm 
glad  he's  gone  ;  for  had  he  staid,  we  should  not 
.have  been  able  then  to  talk  as  if  we  loved  you. 

Capt.  H.  Helen's  in  the  right.  I  should  not  have 
been  free  to  mix  my  tears  with  your's,  dear  children, 
in  his  presence. 

Mrs.  H.  And  on  that  account  I  wish  we  might 
have  had  his  company.  The  violence  you  must 
.have  done  your  sorrows,  would,  in  that  case,  have 
enabled  me  to  keep  down  mine:  and  since  to-mor- 
row we  must  lose  you 

Cec.  O  don't  speak  of  that,  mamma. 

Capt.  H.  Dear  children,  possibly  1  shall  not  leave 
you  long.  Peace  cannot  be  far  off:  it  is  the  wish 
of  every  one  in  England  ;  and  no  sooner  shall  that 
wish  be  gratified,  but  I  will  instantly  come  back, 
and  never  part  with  you  again. 

Mrs.  H.  But  yet,  till  things  are  settled,  you  must 
unavoidably  be  from  us  ;  and  what  comfort  shall  we 
have,  as  long  as  you  are  absent  1 

Cec.  With  what  pleasure  would  I  give  hira  back 
his  ring,  if  he  would  leave  you  with  us? 

Helen.  And  I  his  etui  likewise  ! 

Ber.  And  I  too  his  new-fashioned  song.  See, 
see,  papa,  what  he  has  put  into  my  hand  here. 
Was  there  ever  such  a  song  before  ? 

Caut.  H.  Let's  see.  {Having  read  a  little)  What 

11  VOL.2. 


122  VETERAN    DISMISSED. 

bounty  is  in  this  nobleman  !  and  what  a  charming 
way  too'  he  has  of  obliging  !  He  has  given  you. 
here,  an  order  for  receiving  a  whole  pocket  full 
of  gold  ! 

Ber.  What,  has  he  tricked  me  1  When  you  see 
him  give  him  back  his  money.  I  won't  have  it. 
But  there's  something  else  ;  he  has  given  me  like- 
wise a  song  for  you. 

Capf.H.  A  song  for  me,  my  little  fellow  ?  You 
are  dreaming! 

Ber.  (drawing  the  sealed  paper  out  of  his  pock- 
et) No,  no  :  here  it  is. 

The  children  (smiling  and  approaching  their 
father  with  looks  of  curiosity.)     A  song  !  a  song  ! 

Capt.  H.  Good  heavens  !  What's  this  ?  The 
king's  coat-of-arms !  (He  opens  the  packet  with  a 
trembling  hand,  and  looking  at  the  signature,  cries 
oat)  and  signet  !  (Then  casting  his  eyes  over  the 
three  or  four  first  lines,  breaks  forth  again)  Is  it 
possible  ! — Dear  wife,  and  little  ones,  rejoice  !  re- 
joice ! 

Mrs.  H.  If  you  stay  with  us. 

Capt.  H.  Let  me  read  the  letter  out.  (They  all 
come  round  him,  and  stand  silent  while  he  reads.) 
O,  unexpected  joy!  (Continues  reading)  No,  no! 
it  must  be  all  a  dream,  in  which  my  pleased  imagi- 
nation forms  the  most  brilliant  chimeras! — And  yet, 
stay;  for  I'm  awake,  and  every  thing  is  real,  though 
I  never  could  have  hoped  for  so  much  happiness. 

Mrs.  H.  I'm  dying  with  impatience  to  know 
every  thing. 

Cec.  Well,  well ;  what  is  it,  dear  papa  ? 


I 


VETERAN  DISMISSED.  123 

Helen.  What  pain  you  keep  us  all  in  ! 

Ber.  Let  me  see  your  song  1 

Capt.  hi.  (embracing  his  wife  and  children)  I 
Bm  to  stay  with  you,  my  life  ! — We  are  not  to  be 
separated,  my  dear  children  !  (Giving  Mrs.H.  the 
letter)  Yes,  yes  ;   read  yourself. 

Mrs.  H.     I  tremble  every  limb,  and  cannot. 

The  children  (in  a  transport  of  joy)  Our  papa 
stays  with  us  !   our  papa  stays  with  us  ! 

Capt.  H,  Yes,  yes,  children,  I  shall  not  go  to 
America,  or  leave  you,  and  yet  continue  in  the  ser- 
vice in  a  way  so  honourable  ! 

Mrs.  H    And  how?  how,  my  life? 

Capt.  H  The  king,  informed  (but  how  I  know 
not)  of  my  illness,  and  commiserating  the  condition 
I  am  in,  permits  my  staying  here  in  England;  but, 
to  recompense  my  services,  (and  these  are  his  own 
words,)  confers  upon  me  the  command  of  Upnor 
Castle,  with  the  rank  of  colonel. 

Mrs.  H.      What,  my  dear  1 

Cec.     Joy  !  joy  ! 

Helen.  So  then,  papa,  there  is  not  a  greater 
man  in  all  the  army  ! 

Ber.     And  you're  colonel  ?  are  you  ? 

Capt.  H.  Yes  ;  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life 
entirely  happy.  But,  my  dear,  {to  Mrs.  H.)  shall 
I  be  pardoned,  when  I  tell  you,  such  an  honour  is 
not  on  account  of  any  step  I  took  to  get  it ! — It  has 
come,  1  can't  tell  how. 

Mrs.  H.  Yes,  yes  ;  I  know  that  very  well.  I 
did  what  I  could,  though  what  I  did  was  never 
meant  for  such  an  honour,  joined  to  so  muchhappi- 


124  VETERAN    DISMISSED. 

ness.     They  must  be  both,  however,  placed  to  the- 
account  of  my  solicitation. 

Helen.  Ah!  the  naughty  man,  say  I  ;  but  that 
mamma  took  greater  care  of  us  than  he  did. 

Cec.     So,  papa,  then  you  deceived  us  ? 

Copt.  H.  •  Yes,  my  little  dear  :  but  still  what 
could  J  have  done  ?  I've  only  this  excuse  to  offer, 
that  false  modesty  restrained  me  from  requesting 
my  dismission,  although  I  should  have  thought  I 
could  not  be  of  any  real  service  to  my  country.  I 
was  not,  however,  then  quite  sensible  of  my  condi- 
tion, but  now  I  feel  it :  yes,  1  feel  within  me,  that 
my  constitution  is  no  longer  fit  for  the  fatigue  of 
arms. 

Mrs.  H.  And  this  false  modesty  would  have 
been  death  to  me,  and  left  these  children  without  a 
father,  but  that  Provjdence  has  ordered  your  affairs 
much  better.  Every  thing,  however,  now,  is  par- 
doned. All  I  wish  is,  we  had  here  the  generous 
nobleman,  who  brought  us  this  glad  news,  that  we 
might  thank  him  for  the  kindness  he  has  shown  our 
little  ones,  and  also  for  his  message,  which,  if  the 
truth  were  known,  I  dare  engage  he  has  in  some  de- 
gree been  instrumental  in  procuring;  for  what  like- 
lihood that  I,  an  unknown  woman,  of  myself  should 
have  so  far  succeeded  beyond  every  thing  I  even 
wished  ? 

Capt.  H.  At  least,  if  we  had  but  enjoyed  the 
opportunity  of  granting  him  the  hospitality  of  one 
night's  lodging  with  us. 

Ber.  We'll  run  different  ways  and  overtake- 
him,  if  we  can. 


VETERAN    DISMISSED.  125 

Capt.  H.  Go,  go.  It  grieves  rue  I  cannot  fol- 
low you. 

Helen.  If  we  can  meet  with  him,  and  he  will 
but  accompany  us  back,  he  shall  have,  instead  of 
one,  three  kisses. 

SCENE    IV. 

Bertram,  Captain  Harlow,  Mrs.  Harlow,  Cecilia, 

Helen,  Lord  Cornwallis,  and  the  officer. 

Lord  C.  (running  from  his  hiding  place,  and 
laying  hold  of  Helen.)  Shall  1? — 'Tis  a  match, 
my  little  maid.     (He  kisses  her  three  times.) 

Cec.  and  Ber.  My  lord  !  my  lord  ! 

Helen  (a  little  out  of  countenance)  You've 
almost  scared  me  with  your  kisses  ! 

Capt.  H.  O  my  worthy  general  !  what  words 
will  show  you  half  my  gratitude  ? 

Mrs.  H.  How  can  my  children  and  myself  ex- 
press our  obligations  1  To  whom  we  are  indebted 
for  such  a  blessing,  we  at  present  know  not ;  but 
your  lordship  is  the  bearer  of  a  paper,  that  restores 
a  husband  to  me,  and  a  father  to  my  children. 

LordC.  For  this  blessing,  you  and  they  are  debtors 
to  the  king.  I  have  done  nothing  more  than  solicit 
his  bounty,  wishing  1  might  prove  the  channel  thro* 
which  it  should  flow.  Hearing  accidentally,  dear 
madam,  of  your  application,  I  determined  to  support 
it  with  my  little  interest, and  if  possible,  procure  more 
than  was  solicited.  You  owe  this  interference  to 
my  knowledge  of  the  captain's  merit,  as  I  was 
convinced  how  much  he  had  instructed  his  inferior 
11* 


126  VETERAN    DISMISSED. 

officers,  and  been  of  benefit  to  those  above  him* 
Upon  this  account  t  did  not  think  it  reasonable  he 
should  still  be  forced  among  us,  when  his  infirmity 
made  service  painful  to  him.  And  still  more,  to 
show  how  heartily  I  prosecuted  this  affair,  with 
pleasure  I  took  advantage  of  our  march  so  near  his 
habitation,  to  bring  down  the  news  myself  of  his 
success,  and  gladden  the  bosom  of  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren with  it.  This,  believe  me,  is  a  joy  I  never 
shall  forget.  {He  holds  out  his  hand  to  Capt.  Har- 
low, who  clasps  it  with  transport.) 

Capt.  H.  And  is  it  possible  I  should  have  met 
with  such  a  generous  friend,  who,  of  his  own  accord, 
has  seconded  an  application  which  the  affection  of 
a  valuable  wife  was  making  for  me,  without  my 
knowledge !  No  one  with  less  than  your  benevo- 
lence, my  lord,  could  have  so  heartily  endeavoured 
to  promote  the  happiness  of  an  afflicted  family. 

Mrs.  H.  Then,  likewise,  you  have  made  such 
princely  presents  to  my  children  ! 

Cec.  I  am  now  ashamed  that  I  took  this  ring.  I 
did  not  think  it  was  of  so  much  value. 

Lord  C.  I  must  own  it  is  very  pretty,  but  much 
more  so  on  your  charming  hand.  It  is  indeed  so 
altered,  I  no  longer  know  it. 

Helen.  Neither  would  you,  I  suppose,  sir,  your 
etui  ;  and  therefore  I'll  not  speak  a  word  about  it. 

Ber.  As  for  me,  I  give  you  back  your  song.  It 
is  not  what  you  meant  to  let  me  have. 

Lord  C.  Then  be  it  a  mistake  ;  and  since  I  have 
already  made  it,  pardon  me  ;  to  which  I  hope  your 
good  father  will  add  another  favour  ;  that  bisBertram 


TETERAN    DISMISSED.  127 

may  be  made  an  ensign.     I'll  give  order  for  it,  if  he 
chooses  I  should. 

Capt.  H.  If  I  choose,  my  lord!  You  are  the 
guardian-angel  sent  to  succour  us  ! 

Ber.   But  is  it  in  your  regiment  ? 

Lord  C.  Yes,  my  little  friend. 

Ber.  O  how  rejoiced  I  am  !  I'll  go  this  moment 
with  you,  and  the  name  of  my  father  shall  not 
quickly  be  forgotten  in  the  army. 

Capt.  H.  You  have  conferred  many  favours  on 
me  !  Would  you  not  favour  me  with  one  more, 
I  am  about  to  ask  ? 

Lord  C.  I  apprehend  your  meaning,  and  so  far 
from  not  consenting,  beg  you  to  bestow  it,  namely, 
a  bed  in  your  house  for  one  night  for  my  companion 
and  myself.  (Captain  and  Mrs.  Harlow  bow  re- 
spectfully) Provided  Helen  pleases  ! 

Helen.  O,  since  father  is  to  remain  among  us,  stay 
as  long  as  you  think  proper. 

Cec.  I  may  hope,  my  lord,  that  now  you  will 
consent  to  eat  a  few  more  strawberries  ? 

Htlen.  You  will  make  them  so  much  the  sweeter 
to  us,  as  1  thought  your  arrival  would  have  made 
them  bitter. 

Ber.  Yes,  my  lord,  come  in,  and  honour  my 
father  by  eating  with  us  ;  and,  in  future,  I  will  do 
whatever  I  am  able,  to  deserve  a  second  honour 
like  it — in  your  lordship's  tent. 


128 


TWO  HEADS  BETTER  THAN  ONE, 


Archibald  had  often  been  told  by  his  father  that 
children  know  very  little  what, is  fit  for  them,  and 
that  they  can  never  grow  wise  but  by  following  the 
counsel  of  those  who  are  older  than  themselves. 
But  this  was  a  lesson  which  he  was  unwilling  to  un- 
derstand, or  else  which  he  did  not  remember. 

A  division  had  been  made  of  a  liitle  square  piece 
of  ground  in  the  garden,  between  his  brother  Perci- 
val  and  himself,  and  each  had  his  own  half  at  his 
entire  disposal,  with  full  permission  to  sow  or  to  plant 
in  it  whatever  he  pleased. 

Percival  immediately  recollected  his  father's  in- 
structions. He  went,  .therefore,  to  the  gardener, 
and  said  to  him  :  Robert,  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me 
what  1  can  plant  in  my  little  garden,  and  how  I 
must  manage  to  make  things  grow  in  it. 

Robert  gave  him  some  roots,  and  picked  out  some 
of  his  best  seeds.  Percival  flew  to  put  them  in  the 
earth  :  and  Robert  had  the  good-nature  to  overlook 
and  to  direct  his  proceedings. 

Archibald  only  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  the 
compliance  of  his  brother.  Should  you  like,  said 
the  gardener,  that  I  should  do  something  also  for 
you  ? 

O  to  be  sure,  cried  Archibald,  I  have  great  need 
of  your  advice  1 

He  then  went  himself  and  gathered  some  of  the 


TWO    HEADS    BETTER    THAN    ONE.  129 

flowers,  and  planted  them  by  the  stalk  in  the 
ground  ;  while  Robert  left  him  wholly  to  himself. 

The  next  morning  Archibald  went  to  visit  his 
flowers,  and  saw  them  all  drooping,  withered,  faded, 
and  bending  down  to  the  earth.  He  instantly,  how- 
ever, planted  more,  but  he  saw,  the  next  day,  that 
they  had  shared  the  same  fate. 

He  soon  grew  weary  of  this  work.  It  was  pay- 
ing rather  too  dear  for  the  pleasure  of  having  flow- 
ers in  his  garden.  He  ceased,  therefore,  to  take 
any  further  trouble  with  it,  and  the  ground  was 
quickly  covered  with  thistles  and  weeds. 

About  the  1  atter  end  of  the  next  spring,  he  per- 
ceived upon  his  brother's  ground  something  red, 
that  seemed  budding  in  the  midst  of  thick  clusters 
of  green.  He  went  to  examine  it,  and  found  the 
finest  strawberries,  beautiful  in  their  colour,  and  deli- 
cious in  their  taste.  O  dear  !  cried  he,  if  I  had  but 
planted  some  of  thpse  in  my  garden  ! 

Not  long  after,  he  observed  some  little  round 
things,  of  a  deep  vermilion,  hanging  in  bunches 
between  the  leaves  of  a  thick  bush.  He  instantly 
went  up  to  them.  They  were  currants,  so  fine, 
ripe,  and  inviting,  that  only  to  look  at  them  might 
create  an  appetite.  Ah  !  cried  he  again,  if  I  had 
but  planted  some  of  these,  too,  in  my  garden  ! 

You  may  eat  of  them,  as  if  they  were  entirely 
your's,  said  his  brother. 

It  was  all  in  your  own  power,  said  the  gardener, 
to  have  had  some  equally  good.  So  pray  take  care 
for  the  future  not  to  despise  the  advice  of  people 
who  have  had  more  experience  than  yourself. 


130 

THE     BIRD'S    NEST. 

Mother,  mother  !  cried  little  Sam  one  evening, 
as  quite  out  of  breath  he  ran  up  to  her,  only  look 
at  what's  in  my  hat ! 

Mrs.  B.  Ha,  a  little  bird  !  and  where  did  you 
get  it  ? 

Sam.  I  found  a  nest  this  morning  in  the  garden- 
hedge  :  so  I  waited  till  it  was  night;  and  then  I  slid 
softly  to  the  bush,  and  before  ever  the  bird  was 
aware,  pop  !  I  caught  it  by  the  wings. 

Mrs.  B.    And  was  it  alone  in  its  nest  1 

Sam.  No,  mother,  all  its  children  were  there  too. 
But  they  are  so  little,  they  have  no  feathers  on  yet : 
so  I  am  not  afraid  of  their  escaping. 

Mrs.  B.  And  what  would  you  do  with  this  bird  ? 

Sam.  I  shall  put  it  in  a  cage  and  hook  the  cage 
up  in  my  room. 

Mrs.  B.  And  all  the^poor  little  ones  ? 

Sam.  O,  I  shall  take  them  too,  and  feed  them 
myself.     I'll  go  and  run  for  them  now  directly. 

Mrs.  B.  I  am  sorry  to  tell  you,  you  won't  have 
time. 

Sam.  O,  it  is  not  far  off.  You  know  where  the 
great  cherry  tree  is?  Well,  it's  just  opposite  to- 
that.     I  looked  well  at  the  place. 

Mrs.  B.  But  that  is  not  the  thing  ;  T  am  afraid 
you  will  be  seized  yourself  first.  The  soldiers  are, 
perhaps,  at  the  door  already. 

Sam.   The  soldiers,  mamma  !  to  take  me  ! 

Mrs.  B.  Yes,  you.     The  king  has  just  had  your 


THE    BIRD'S    NEST.  131 

father  arrested  ;  and  the  guard  who  forced  him 
away,  said  he  should  return  to  take  you  and  your 
sister,  and  carry  you  also  to  prison. 

Sam.  O  dear,  O  dear  ! — what  will  they  do  with 
us? 

Mrs.  B.  You  will  be  confined  in  a  small  apart- 
ment, and  never  be  allowed  to  go  out  of  it. 

Sam.  O,  what  a  wicked  king  ! 

Mrs.  B.  He  will  have  no  harm  done  to  you. 
You  will  have  food  and  drink  every  day.  You  will 
only  be  deprived  of  your  liberty,  and  of  the  pleas- 
ure of  ever  seeing  me  again.  (Sam  begins  to  cry) 
Why,  my  love,  why  what's  the  matter  with  you  7 
Is  it  so  great  a  misfortune  to  be  shut  up  in  a  room, 
when  you  will  have  all  the  necessaries  of  life.  (Sam 
sobs  too  violently  to  speak)  The  king  does  but  be- 
have to  your  father,  your  sister,  and  yourself,  as 
you  have  behaved  to  this  bird  and  its  little  ones. 
You  cannot,  therefore,  call  him  wicked,  without 
calling  yourself  so  at  the  same  time. 

Sam.  (still  crying)  O  !— I'll  let  the  bird  fly 
away  ! [He  releases   the  bird,  whifh  flies  off.) 

Mrs.B.  (  folding  him  in  her  arms.)  Take  cour- 
age, my  child  ;  I  have  said  this  merely  to  try  you. 
Your  father  is  not  in  prison,  and  neither  your  sister 
nor  yourself  are  going  to  be  confined.  I  only 
wanted  to  make  you  understand  how  ill  you  were 
acting,  in  desiring  to  imprison  the  poor  little  ani- 
mal. Just  as  you  were  terrified  yourself  when  I 
told  you  that  you  were  to  be  seized,  this  bird  was 
terrified  when  you  robbed  it  of  its  liberty.  You 
little  considered  how  the  husband  would  have  pined 


132 


THE    BIRD'S    NEST. 


for  his  wife,  how  the  children  would  have  cried  for 
their  mother,  and  how  afflicted  they  must  all  have 
been  by  such  a  separation.  I  am  sure  this  did  not 
once  enter  your  mind,  or,  certainly,  you  would 
never  have  taken  the  bird.   Is  it  not  true,  my  dear  1 

Sam.  Yes,  mamma,  for  I  had  never  thought 
about  all  that  ! 

Mrs.  B.  Well,  think  of  it  then  in  future ;  and 
forget  not  that  these  innocent  little  animals  were 
created  to  enjoy  their  liberty,  and  that  it  is  highly 
cruel  to  fill  a  life,  so  short  as  theirs,  with  bitterness 
and  sorrow.  But,  to  remember  it  better,  you 
should  get  by  heart  your  good  friend's  verses  upon 
this  subject. 

Sam.  What !  mamma,  the  verses  by  the  Chil- 
dren's Friend !  O,  read  them  to  me,  dear  mother ! 

Mrs.  B.  I  will ;  here  they  are  : 


the   bird's  nest.  133 

Yes,  little  nest,  I'll  hold  you  fast, 
And  little  birds,  one,  two,  three,  four; 
I've  watch'd  you  long;  you're  mine  at  last : 
Poor  things  !  you  can  escape  no  more. 

Chirp,  cry,  and  flutter  as  you  will, 
Poor  simple  ones,  'tis  all  in  vain  ; 
Your  little  wings  are  unrledg'd  still  : 
How  can  you  freedom  then  obtain  ? 

What  note  of  sorrow  strikes  my  ear  ? 
Is  it  their  mother  thus  di>trest  1 
O  yes — cind  see,  their  father  dear 
Flies  round  and  round,  to  seek  their  nest. 

And  is  it  I,  who  cause  their  mean  ? 
I,  who  so  oft  in  summer's  heat, 
Beneath  yon  oak  have  laid  me  down, 
To  listen  to  their  sons  so  sweet  ? 


If  from  my  tender  mother's  side, 
Some  wicked  wretch  should  make  me  fly, 
Full  well  I  know  'twould  her  betide 
To  break  her  heart,  to  sink,  to  die  ! 

And  shall  I,  then,  so  cruel  prove, 
Your  little  ones  to  force  away  1 

No,  no;  together  live  and  love, 

See,  here  they  are— Take  them  I  pray. 

Teach  them  in  yonder  wood  to  fly, 
And  let  them  your  soft  warblings  hear, 
12  vol.  2. 


134        THE  SECRET  OF  PLEASURE. 

Till  their  own  wings  can  soar  as  high, 
And  their  own  notes  can  sound  as  clear. 

Go,  little  birds,  go,  free  as  air  ! 
While  oft  again  in  summer's  heat, 
To  yonder  oak  I  will  repair, 
And  listen  to  your  song  so  sweet. 


THE    SECRET     OF     PLEASURE. 

I  wish  I  might  do  nothing  but  play  all  day  longt 
mamma,  cried  little  Laura,  to  Mrs.  Draper,  her 
mother. 

Mrs.  D.    What,  nothing  else  for  the  whole  day  1 

Lotira.   Yes,  mamma,  mothing  else. 

Mrs.  D.  I  have  no  desire  but  to  make  you  happy, 
my  love  ;  but  I  am  sure  playing  so  long  will  only 
tire  you. 

Laura.  Playing  tire  me,  mamma  ?  O  no  indeed  ! 
you  shall  see  if  it  will. 

Laura  then,  jumping  at  every  other  step,  flew  in 
search  of  all  her  play-things.  She  soon  got  them 
together  :  but  she  was  quite  alone,  for  her  sisters 
were  employed  in  studying  till  dinner-time. 

At  first  she  enjoyed  her  liberty  with  all  possible 
spirit,  and  for  a  whole  hour  was  perfectly  happy  : 
but,  after  that,  she  began  to  be  weary ,and  every  mo- 
ment took  from  her  some  portion  of  pleasure. 

She  had  already  looked  at  her  play-things,  one 
after  another,  a  hundred  times  :  and  now  she  knew 
not  what  to  do  next.  Even  her  favourite  doll  dis- 
pleased and  tired  her. 


i 


SECRET    OF    PLEASURE.  135 

She  went  to  her  mother  and  begged  she  would 
tell  her  of  some  new  amusement,  and  play  with  her 
a  little  herself:  but  Mrs.  Draper  was  engaged  in 
some  affairs  of  importance  ;  and  she  was  forced  to 
refuse  Laura's  request  however  unwillingly. 

The  litile  girl  then  seated  herself  mournfully  in 
a  corner,  where,  uncomfortable  and  yawning,  she 
waited  till  her  sisters  had  finished  their  lessons, 
and  were  allowed  to  find  entertainment  for  them- 
selves. 

The  time  at  last  arrived.  Laura  ran  to  them, 
and,  in  a  doleful  voice,  told  them  how  long  the 
morning  had  seemed  to  her,  and  how  impatient  she 
had  been  for  their  coming. 

They  now  made  choice  of  their  most  favourite 
plays,  in  order  to  raise  the  spirits  of  their  little  sis- 
ter, who  was  tenderly  loved  by  them  all. 

But,  alas  !  their  kindness  was  in  vain.  Laura 
declared  she  was  quite  sick  of  all  these  plays  al- 
ready, and  that  they  did  not  give  her  the  least 
pleasure  ;  and  added,  she  believed  they  were  all  in 
a  plot  against  her,  not  to  choose  any  game  that  she 
liked. 

Adelaide,  her  eldest  sister,  who  was  a  young  lady 
ten  years  of  age,  very  sensible  and  reasonable,  now 
took  her  by  the  hand,  and  said  with  great  sweetness  : 

Look  at  us  all,  Laura,  one  after  another,  as  we 
stand  here  together,  and  then  1  will  tell  you  who 
among  us  it  is  that  occasions  your  discontent. 

Lnurn.  And  who  is  it,  sister  ?  for  I  am 
sure  I  can't  find  out. 

Adelaide.  That  is  because  you  have  not  looked  at 


136  HOT  COCKLES. 

yourself.  Yes,  my  dear  Laura,  it  is  no  one  but 
yourself;  you  see  very  well  that  these  plays  still 
amuse  us,  notwithstanding  we  have  played  at  them 
so  often,  and  even  before  you  were  born.  But  we 
are  just  come  from  our  tasks,  which  makes  every 
thing-  seem  new  to  us.  If  yon  had  earned  your 
pleasure,  as  we  have  done,  by  working,  you  wouJd 
find  it  as  sweet  as  we  do. 

Laura,  child  as  she  was,  did  not  want  for  under- 
standing, and  was  much  struck  by  her  sister's  dis- 
course. It  taught  her  that,  to  be  really  happy,  it 
was  necessary  to  mingle  useful  exercises  with  pleas- 
ant diversions.  And  I  believe,  since  that  time,  she 
would  have  conceived  a  greater  dread  of  a  whole  day 
of  mere  pleasure,  than  one  filled  up  with  every  em- 
ployment  suited  to  her  age. 


HOT    COCKLES 


The  Elder   and   Younger. 

Younger.  Brother,  all  our  friends  have  left  us, 
and  yet  still  I'm  in  a  playing  humour.  What  game 
shall  we  choose  1 

Elder.  There  are  only  two  of  us,  and  I'm  afraid 
we  should  not  be  much  diverted. 

Younger.  Let's  play  at  something,  however. 

Elder.  But  at  what  ? 

Younger.  At  blindman's-buff,  for  instance. 


HOT  COCKLES.  137 

Elder.  That's  a  game  would  never  end.  It 
would  not  be  as  if  there  were  a  dozen,  of  which 
number  some  are  generally  off  their  guard  ;  but 
where  there  are  only  two,  I  shold  not  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  shun  you,  or  you  me  :  and  then,  when  we 
had  caught  each  other,  we  should  know  for  certain 
who  it  was. 

Younger.  That's  true  indeed.  Well  then,  what 
think  you  of  Hot  Cockles  ? 

Elder.  That  would  be  the  same,  you  know.  We 
could  not  possibly  guess  wrong. 

Younger.  Perhaps  we  might.  However,let  us  try. 

Elder.  With  all  my  heart,  if  it  will  please  you. 
Look  you,  if  you  like  it,  I'll  be  the  hot  cockles  first. 

Younger.  Do,  brother.  Put  your  right  hand  on 
the  bottom  of  this  chair :  now  stoop  down  and  lay 
your  face  quite  close  upon  it,  that  you^may  not 
see.  That's  well ;  and  now,  your  left  hand  on 
your  back.  Well,  master ! — but  I  hope  your  eyes 
are  shut  1 

Elder.     Yes,  yes  ;  don't  be  afraid. 

Younger.  Well,  master,  what  have  you   to  sell  ? 

Elder.  Hot  cockles !  hot  ! 

Younger,   (slopping  him.)  Who  struck  ? 

Eldrr.  (getting  up.)  Why  who,  you  little  goose, 
but  you  ? 

Younger.  Yes,  yes  ;  but  with  which  hand  ? 

The  eldest  did  not  dream  of  such   a  question  ; 

he  was  taken   by  surprise,   and   said  the  right,  at 

hazard. — It  was   with   the   left,   however,  he  had 

been  struck  ;  and  thus  the  youngest  outwitted  him. 

12* 


138 


MAN     IS     BEST     AS     HE    IS. 

Mr.  Howell,  having  in  his  hand  a  dead  parrot, 
stuffed,  comes  in,  ascends  a  chair,  and  ties  it  to 
a  cord  already  hanging  from  the  ceiling. 

I  fancy  that  unlucky  Rowland  will  not  reach  it 
at  this  height.  One  can  scarcely  keep  any  thing 
from  such  a  meddling  boy.  [He  puts  the  chair  in 
its  place  again,  and  goes  out.) 

Rowland  (<ntering  a  moment  after.)  Where,  in 
the  name  of  goodness,  can  I'm  her  have  poked  our 
poor  dead  parrot  ?  J  observed  it  in  his  hand,  when 
first  he  came  in  here  ;  but  saw  him  afterwards  go 
out,  without  it.  (He  looks-  round  the  apartmtnt  ; 
and.  at  last,  spies  the  parrot  hanging  from  the  ceil- 
ing) Ah  ha  !  there  he  is  !  {He  takes  a  run,  and 
jumps  with  all  his  might,  bvl  wants  three  fed,  or 
wore,  to  reach  the  parrot)  If  I  were  but  as  active 
as  our  greyhound.  (He  pulls  a  chair  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  and  getting  on  it,  is  as  yet  too 
short;  he  stands  on  tiptoe,  and  then  jumps,  but  all 
without  effect.  He  instantly  comes  down,  and  runs 
for  a  folio  volume,  lettered  Plutarch,  which  he 
puts  on  the  chair,  mounts  on  it,  and  holds  out  his 
hands)  Shall  1  never  reach  the  mark  ?  I  want, 
however,  sadly  to  find  out  how  Nicholas  has 
stuffed  it.  Let  me  take  another  jump.  (He  bends 
his  knees  to  spring,  when  Vincent  entering,  catches 
him  at  work,  and  hums  the  following  toords.) 


MAN    IS    BEST     AS     HE     IS. 


-c^  <i^  cg^ 


Well  leaped,  in  good  truth. 


MAN    IS    BEST    AS  HE    IS.  141 

4  Well  leap'd,  in  good  truth  !'"  But  dorrt  let  me 
disturb  you  ;  for  however  active  you  may  be,  you'll 
need  a  thousand  ups  and  downs  before  you  reach  it. 
Such  a  bit  of  manhood,  jump  so  high  !  Come  down, 
Let  me  get  up.  1  think  I  shall  not  want  your  Plu- 
tarch. (He  pulls  him  by  the  coat  till  he  comes 
dozen,  then  gets  up  in  his  stead,  and  lifting  both 
hands,  is  still  a  great  way  from  the  parrot.^) 

Row.  (bursting  into  a  laugh)  Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha! 
good  Mr.  Bit-of  manhood  !  By  the  manner  of  your 
speaking,  any  one  would  certainly  have  fancied  jou 
as  tall  as as,  at  least,  the  monument. 

Fin.  But  if  I  step  upon  the  book.  (He  stands 
on  it,  is  a  little,  nearer,  but  not  near  enough  to  touch 
the  parrot.  Rowland  jumps  about  the  chair,  and 
laughs  incessantly.)  Tis  not  my  fault ;  but  your 
Plutarch's,  that  though  thick  enough  to  read  in,  is 
not  so  to  make  a  footstool.  Only  think  if  there  had 
only  been  a  few  more  clever  fellows  in  antiquity, 
the  parrot  would  have  certainly  been  mine. 

Row.  Or  rather  mine,  for  in  that  case,  I  should 
have  got  it  first. 

Vin.     Not  that  I  care  about  it. 

Row.  No  indeed,  not  more  than  Reynard,  in  the 
fable,  cared  about  the  grapes  :  the  parrot's  possibly 
too  green  ! — hey,  brother  ? 

Vin.  What's  the  use  of  taking  it  down  ?  I  can  see 
it  very  well  at  this  distance. 

Row.  (bantering  Vincent)  Yes,  it  is  in  a  charm- 
ing point  of  view  !  but  hark  ye,  Vincent,  I  don't 
think  there's  so  much  difference  between  our  heights 
at  last,  though  you  are  three  years  older. 


142  MAN    IS   BEST   AS    HE  IS. 

Vin.  Only  th;nk  how  vain  the  little  creature  is  ! 
—Perhaps  you'd  like  to  measure  with  me  1 

Row.  Yes,  with  all  my  heart.  (I  hey  come  to- 
gether, bark  to  bark,  and  make  the  most  of  their  re 
specfive  heights  :  but  Rowland  st  mds  tiptoe.  Vin- 
cent is  astonished  Ae's  so  tall,  till  looking  down,  he 
sets  the  reason.) 

Vin.  Ah,  slyboots  !  is  it  so  t  Yes,  yes,  indeed  : 
I  grant  you,  if  you're  at  those  tricks.  Come,  come, 
put  down  your  heels. 

Row.  (then  appearing  greatly  shorter  than  his 
brother)    It  is  a  plaguey  thing  to  be  so  short  ! 

Mr.  H.  (coming  in)  Because  you  can't  reach 
Poll?     You  mean  so,  don't  you,  Rowland  ? 

Row.  You've  been  watching  us  then,  papa  ? 

Mr.  H.  No  ;  but  don't  you  see,  your  feet  have 
left  it  written  on  my  Plutarch  ? 

Vin.  Had  we  been  as  tail  as  you,  we  should  then 
have  been  able  to  see  Poll  a  great  deal  nearer. 

Air.  H.  Yes  ;  and  plagued  him  after  he  was  dead 
as  much  as  you  did  while  he  lived.  And  yet  you're 
tall  enough  for  any  sort  of  mischief. 

Vin.  O,  papa  :  what  pleasure  we  should  have  if 
we  were  buth  as  tall  as  you  ! 

Mr.  H.  1  know  you  well  enough  ;  you  would 
not,  even  in  tint  case,  be  content. 

Vin.    'Tis  true,  I  had  much  rather   be   as  tall  as 

what  d'ye  call  him  there,  the  giant,  who  came 

down  to  show  himself  for  money,  at  the  fair  ? 

Row.  Aye,  Hurlothrunbo  ;  but  at  present,  as 
we're  wishing,  and  as  wishes  cost  so  little,  we  need 
hardly  stop. — You  recollect  our  tallest  cherry-tree  1 


MAN    IS   BEST    AS    HE    IS.  143 

— Well  then,  I'd  be  as  tall  as  that,  as  tall  as — tall  as 
Gulliver  at  Lilliput. 

Mr.  H.  And  why  \ 

Row.  Because  I  should  want  neither  ladder  nor 
pole  when  the  fruit  is  ripe.  Do  but  think  a  little, 
brother  ;  how  delightful  it  would  be,  to  walk  about 
the  orchard,  with  our  head  among  the  branches  of 
the  trees,  and  browse  on  cherries,  pears,  and  apples, 
and  to  gather  them  as  we  do  currants  from  the  bush ; 
would  not  this  be  charming  entertainment? 

Vin.  One  might  likewise  walk  along  the  streets, 
and  look  into  the  rooms  on  either  side  the  way, 
three  stories  high  :  Ha  !  ha  !  I  fancy  we  should 
put  the  people  in  a  fright  ! 

Row.  I  should  not  fear  the  carriages  when  I  had 
occasion  to  cross  the  street.  It  would  be  only 
straddling. — Look  ye — thus  :  {he  strides)  and  I 
should  see  carts,  waggons,  coaches,  men  and  horses, 
all  pass  under  me,  and  should  smile  in  derision  of 
their  litvleness. 

Vin.  You  know  the  river  that  goes  by  our  house 
in  town  ?  We  must  now  take  a  boat  to  cross  it, 
or  go  over  Westminster  or  Blackfriar's  bridge. 
Well,  I  might  walk  through  it  then,  which  would  be 
very  cooling  in  the  summer. 

Row.  And  besides  all  this,  you  know,  we  should 
be  stronger,  were  we  bigger.  If  a  bull  should  ven- 
ture to  attack  me,  as  I  crossed  the  path,  I'd  twist 
his  neck  off,  just  as  if  he  were  a  rabbit  ;  or  else 
chuck  him  up  two  hundred  yards  or  higher  in  the 
air,  while  he  should  be  so  occupied  about  his  falling, 


144  MAN    IS  BEST   AS    HE    IS. 

that,  when  down,  he  would  forget  entirely  .to  get  up 
and  run  away. 

Vin.  We  should  not  then  want  horses  for  the 
plough,  as  we  might  easily  draw  it  ourselves  :  and 
in  ten  steps  get  quiie  across  a  very  spacious  field. 
I  saw,  last  i  hursday,  more  than  fifty  men  at  work, 
in  driving  piles  to  make  a  causeway.  And  how 
hard  they  worked  !  Well  then,  with  such  a  hammer 
as  my  size  would  let  me  raise,  one  man  might  in  a 
single  day,  dispatch  their  work,  and  not  be  half  so 
tired  at  night. 

Mr.  H.  Fine  talking  this,  truly  ;  but  do  you 
know  that,  after  all  your  would  be's,  you  are  two 
blockheads  1 

Vin.  How,  papa,  two  blockheads  ? 
Mr.  H.  Yes,  to  think  you  would  be  happier  than 
at  present,  were  you  bigger. 

Vin.  But,  papa,  if  we  were  able  to  do  more  a 
great  deal  than  we  do  at  present  ? 

Roto.  For  example  :  would  it  not  be  quite  con- 
venient, could  we  reach  things  very  high,  and  take 
a  deal  of  ground  at  a  step  in  travelling  ? 

Mr.  H.  Before  I  answer  you,  inform  me  if,  be- 
coming thus  so  very  tall,  you  would  have  every 
thing  else  remain  as  little  as  it  was  before  your  al- 
teration ? 

Row.  Certainly,  papa. 

Vin.  Yes,  yes !  there  should  be  none  but  we 
three  giants. 

Mr.  H.  Thank  you  ;  for  my  part,  I'm  contented 
with  my  size,  Hnd  wish  Hot  to  change  it. 

Row.  Yet  I  think  we  ought  not  to  be  near  so  bic 


MAN    IS    BEST    AS    HE    IS.  145 

as  you  :    for  otherwise,    it  would  be  the  children's 
part  to  whip  their  father. 

Mr.  H.  It  is  a  happy  circumstance  for  me,  that  I 
shall  not,  in  a  hurry,  be  exposed  to  so  much  shame 
and  danger. 

Row.  O,  but  I  would  spare  you,  recollecting  how 
often  you  had  shown  me  favour. 

Vin.  [to  his  father)  You  don't  wish  then  to  be 
bigger  1 

Mr.  H.  No,  indeed  ;  but  let  us  speak  in  this 
place  for  your  brother  and  you  only  ;  and  observe 
what  would  result  from  being  bigger.  In  the  first 
place,  then,  Rowland,  if,  as  you  wished  just  now, 
you  were  ai  tall  as  that  same  cherry-tree,  how 
would  you  be  able,  as  at  present,  to  go  out  and  take 
your  walk  among  so  many  trees,  as  fill  our  orchard  ? 
you  would  consequently  be  obliged  to  crawl  upon 
all  fours,  and  even  then,  you  would  find  it  very  dif- 
ficult to  get  along. 

Row.  But  you  forget,  papa,  how  easily  I  might 
put  out  my  foot  against  the  first  tree  standing  in  my 
way,  and  root  it  up.  It  would  be  nothing  but  a 
wheat-stalk  to  me. 

Mr.H.  Thereby  you  would  pursue  a  very  prudent 
plan  !  and  in  proportion,  as  you  wanted  much  more 
fruit  to  satisfy  your  palate,  you'd  destroy  the  trees 
that  bear  it ;  but  let's  go  a  little  farther  than  our  or- 
chard. There  are  many  roads  about  us,  shaded  by 
rows  of  trees,  whose  branches  overhan?  the  path- 
way. Well,  men  that  are  of  common  height,  can 
walk  beneath  these  branches  at  their  ease,  and  find 
13  vol.  2. 


146  MAN    IS    BEST    AS    HE    IS. 

the  shade  they  give  quite  comfortable  in  the  heat 
of  summer,  and  particularly  at  noon-day  ;  but  you 
would  be  obliged  to  walk  along  the  middle  of  the 
road,  and  have  no  shade.  And  then,  what  would 
become  of  you,  when  you  should  have  to  make  your 
way  through  a  forest  ?  What  a  furious  overthrow 
of  trees  you  would  make  before  you  could  clear 
yourself  a  path  ! 

Row.  I  should  be  no  more  fatigued  than  were  1 
now  to  make  a  hole  sufficient  for  my  passage  through 
a  hedge. 

'  Vin.  I  would  uproot  the  tallest  oaks,  rike  that 
same  mad  Grecian  that  is  mentioned  in  my  English 
Sophocles. 

Mr.  H.  1  should  sincerely  pity  those  condemned 
to  live  about  you  ;  but  with  such  long  legs  as  you 
would  have, you  would  take  it  in  your  head, no  doubt, 
to  travel  ? 

Roto.  Travel  !  Why,  papa,  I'd  go  from  one  end 
of  the  world  to  the  other. 

Mr.  H.  Like  enough  !  And  without  halting,  I 
suppose  !  For  where,  tell  me,  would  you  find  a 
house,  a  chamber,  or  a  bed,  half  big  enough  for  your 
enormous  stature  1  You  would  certainly  be  forced 
to  lie  all  night  abroad  upon  a  haystack.  That  would 
be  quite  charming!     Don't  you  think  so  ? 

Row.  I  should  find  myself  as  badly  off  as  poor 
Gulliver  at  Lilliput. 

Vin.  Aye  ;  you  have  not,  I  can  see,  brother, 
made  your  system  quite  perfect.  No,  that's  plain; 
and  you  must  have  the  rest  of  men  as  big  as  your- 
self. 


MAN    IS    BEST    AS    HE    IS. 


147 


Mr.  H.  That's  raoreg  enerous,  I  must  own.  But 
how  then  would  the  ground  suffice  to  feed  so  many- 
monstrous  giants  ?  In  a  parish  that  subsists,  at  pres- 
ent, five  hundred  people,  twenty  would  not  find 
provision.  We  should  each  of  us  consume  our  ox 
in  eight  and  forty  hours,  and  easily  driuk  a  butt  of 
milk  at  breakfast  only. 

Vin.  O,  but  I  would  have  the  oxen  bigger  like- 
wise. 

Mr.  H.  And  how  many  of  such  oxen  might  be 
put  to  graze  within  a  common  meadow  1 

Vin.  Truly,  but  a  very  few  indeed. 

Mr.  H.  I  see  then,  that,  for  want  of  pasture,  we 
should  soon  want  cattle. 

Vin.  Well  then,  there's  but  one  thing  more  to 
order,  and  the  matter's  settled.  We  must  have  the 
world  grow  bigger  also. 

Mr.  H.  Nothing  puzzles  you,  I  see.  To  be  "a  few 
yards  taller,  you  would,  at  a  minute's  notice,  stretch 
all  nature.  It  is  a  great  thought  indeed  ;  and  yet, 
I  fancy  you'd  be  far  from  finding  any  capital  advan- 
tage, after  every   thing  wer$  settled  as  you  wished. 

Vin*  And  why  not,  dear  papa  1 

Mr.  H.  Can  you  inform  me  what  proportion 
means? 

Vin.  Proportion  ?     No. 

Mr.  H.  Then  stand  here  by  your  brother.  Right. 
Now  which  is  tallest,  you  or  Rowland  1 

Vin.  You  can  see  yourself,  papa;  he  does  not 
reach  my  ear. 

Mr.  H.  Come  now  and  stand  by  me.  Which  is 
shortest  ? 


148  MAN    IS  BEST    AS    HE    IS. 

Vin.  I  am  ;  unfortunately. 

Mr.  H.  It  seems  then,  Vincent,  that  you  are  both 
big  and  little  ? 

Vin.  No,  papa  :  I  beg  your  pardon  I  am  neither 
big  nor  little,  to  speak  properly.  I'm  big  respecting 
Rowland  ;  but  I'm  little  with  respect  to  you. 

Mr.  H.  And  if  we  were  to  grow,  all  three  to- 
gether, ten  times  taller,  would  you  then  be  less  re- 
specting me,  or  bigger  in  respect  to  Rowland,  than 
you  are  at  present  1 

Vin.  No,  papa ;  for  there  would  always  be  an 
equal  difference. 

Mr.  H.  Then  that's  what  proportion  means.  It 
is  regular  gradation. 

Vin.  I  understand  you  now. 
Mr.  H.    In  that  case,  let's  come  back  to  your  idea. 
If,  in  nature,   every   thing  were  to   become  bigger, 
siill  preserving  its  present  proportion,  you   would 
still  be  at  the    point  exactly   where  you  first  of  all 
set  out.     You  would   not  then  be  capable  of  fright- 
ening people  in  their  garrets,by  just  looking  at  them 
through  the  window  ;  you  would  find  it  no  less  dif- 
ficult to  wade  across  the  water,  or  drive  piles  with- 
out assistance,  than  at  present ;  and  be  equally  una- 
ble to  twist  off,  as  you  expressed    it,    a  bull's   neck, 
or  send  him  up  two  hundred  yards  into  the  air ;  he 
would  be  still  much  bigger  than  yourself. 
Vin.  Yes,  yes  ;  I  see  he  would. 
Mr.  H.    Rowland,  have  you  heard  us  ? 
Row.     Yes,  papa. 

Mr.  H.    And  understand   the  meaning  of  propor- 
tion? 


MAN    IS    BEST    AS    HE    IS.  149 

Row*  You  shall  see.  Proportion  is  when  any 
thing  grows  bigger,  and  another  does  the  same. 

Mr.  H.    But  can  you  give  me  an  example  1 

Row.  (after  having  thought  a  little)  I  believe  I 
can,  as  thus :  'Twould  be  in  vain  for  me  to  tell  my 
brother,  with  a  boast,  that  when  three  years  were 
past,  I  should  be  three  years  older  :  he  would  still 
be  oldest,  as  he  also  would  be  three  years  older 
than  he  is  at  present. 

Mr.  H.  Excellently  well  conceived  !  And  thus, 
though  you  should  grow  as  large  in  stature  as  our 
cherry-tree,  our  cherry-tree,  in  turn,  would  have 
grown  larger  also,  by  the  difference  now  between 
you. 

Row.    Yes,  that's  plain. 

Mr.  H.  Cou'd  you,  in  that  case,  take  the  cherries 
with  more  ease  than  now  you  gather  currants  1 

Row.  No,  papa,  I  should  then  be  obliged  to  come 
to  my  ladder  and  my  pole  ;  not  the  same  as  former- 
ly, for  they  would  not  serve  me  any  longer  ;  in  this 
case  it  would  be  necessary  the  proportion  should  be 
still  preserved. 

Mr.  H.  And  would  the  carriages  then  pass  be- 
tween your  legs  ? 

Row.  No,  certainly  :  I  should  be  still  obliged  to 
keep  upon  the  side-walks,  if  I  would  not  have  them 
throw  me  down. 

Mr.  H.  And  what  advantage,  Vincent,  would  you 
then  derive  from  such  a  general  change  of  nature  as 
your  pride  would  introduce. 

Kin.    I  don't  see  any. 
13* 


150  MAN    IS    BEST    AS    HE    IS. 

Mr.  H-  Your  wishes  then  are  absurd,  since  the 
accomplishment  of  them  cannot  make  you  more 
happy. 

Vin.  Truly  you  are  right,  papa.  It  would  have 
been  much  better  if  we  had  wished  to  be  little  ;  yes, 
quite  little. 

Row.  What,  brother,  as  little  as  Gulliver's  Lilli- 
putians ? 

Vin.  Why  not  1 

Mr.  H.  Ha,  ha  !  another  strange  conceit !  And 
what  can  be  your  motives  to  this  wish  1 

Vin.  Because,  among  a  number  of  good  conse- 
quences, one  would  never  fear  a  famine  ;  since  a 
very  little  wheat — a  handful  only — would  make 
bread  enough  to  serve  a  man  for  four  and  twenty- 
hours. 

Mr.  H.  Why,  truly,  there  might  be  some  savings ! 
Yin.  And  besides,  we  should  not  then  have 
cause  to  go  to  war  with  one  another,  as  a  place  no 
bigger  than  our  garden,  would  be  large  enough  to 
build  a  mighty  city.  Men,  therefore,  having  much 
more  room  than  they  want,  would  never  go  to  war 
with  one  another,  as  I've  heard  you  say  they  do,  for 
obtaining  an  inch  or  two  of  land. 

Mr.  H.  I  would  not  answer  for  them  in  that 
point,  acquainted  as  I  am  with  human  folly  :  but  I 
will  not  disturb  so  charming  an  arrangement  by  my 
fears ;  and  therefore  am  contented  to  suppose  I 
see  both  peace  and  plenty  flourishing  among  us,  and 
the  golden  age,  as  you  have  read  in  Ovid,  thanks 
to  your  good  management,  brought  back  again 
among  Us ! 


MAN    IS    BEST    AS    HE    IS.  151 

Vin.  O,  that's  not  all.  My  tutor  tells  me,  little 
creatures  are  a  deal  more  delicate  and  perfect  in 
themselves  than  great  ones  ;  have  a  much  more 
piercing  sight,  a  finer  sense  of  hearing  ;  and  in  smell, 
are  much  superior.     Is  that  true,  papa  ? 

Mr.  H.     In  general. 

Vin.  Thus,  then,  were  we  less  a  great  deal  than 
at  present,  we  should  see,  and  hear,  and  smell  too, 
many  things,  of  which,  at  present,  we've  no  knowl- 
edge. 

Mr.  H.  These  advantages,  it  is  true,  are  very 
precious  ;  yet  I  otvn  I  should  be  sorry  to  renounce, 
for  such  advantages,  the  universal  empire  we  now 
exercise  on  every  thing  that  breathes. 

Vin.  There  would  be  no  occasion  to  renounce 
it;  for  remember,  you  have  often  told  me,  man 
bears  rule  much  more  by  his  understanding,  than 
mere  strength  of  body. 

Mr.  H.  True  ;  because  his  strength  of  body  is 
exactly  proportioned  to  his  understanding.  But  be- 
stow upon  a  Lilliputian's  frame  the  greatest  and  sub- 
limest  genius — give  him  even  our  inventions  and 
our  arts,  advanced  to  that  perfection  they  possess 
among  us  ;  do  you  think  he  would  be  able  to  em- 
ploy our  slightest  instruments,  and  manage  pioperly 
the  meanest  of  our  numberless  machines  or  engines? 
How  would  he  defend  himself  against  wild  beasts, 
when  even  the  dog  he  keeps  within  his  dwelling 
would,  without  designing  any  mischief,  crush  him 
under  foot  ? 

Vin.  But  then,  if  every  thing  becomes  piopor- 
tionabiy  little  1     There,  I  think  I  have  you. 


152  MAN    IS    BEST    AS   HE    IS. 

Mr.  H.  Only  to  confound  yourself;  for,  granting 
this  proportionality  of  littleness,  men  immediately 
lose  all  the  advantage  you  would  give  them.  Their 
deficient  harvests  would  not  keep  them  from  the 
fear  of  famine  ;  and  their  wars,  while  they  were  no 
less  frequent  or  ferocious  than  at  present,  would  be 
more  ridiculous.  The  inferior  animal  would  still 
have  finer  organs,  and  more  delicate  sensations  ;  and 
perhaps  too  with  his  littleness,  which  could  not  but 
be  laughed  at,  he  would  take  upon  him,  as  you  do, 
to  alter  and  reform  the  universe. 

Tin.  I  think,  papa,  you're  much  too  hard  upon 
us  ;  we  can  settle  nothing  with  you. 

Row.  For  this  reason,  brother,  because  you  know 
nothing  about  the  matter.  There  is  but  one  way, 
and  that  is,  to  order  things  as  they  should  be. 

Mr.  H.  Bravo  !  so  you  take  the  man  of  conse- 
quence upon  you. 

Row.  Yes,  as  well  as  Vincent. 
Mr.  H.    Come  then,  let  me  know  how  you  would 
settle  the  affair  \  your  system  must  be  very  curious, 
I  suppose. 

Row.  Why  then,  papa,  we  only  want  one  thing. 
We  want  to  have  a  harder  body,  one  as  hard  as 
iron. 

Mr.  H.    And  why  so  1 

Row.  You  see  the  prick  here  in  my  little  finger. 
It  seems  nothing ;  yet  you  can't  imagine  how  much 
pain  it  gives  me. 

Mr.  II.    My  poor  little  man  !  Pm  sorry  for  it. 
Row.  And  the   wound  I  gave  ray  head  about  a 
month  ago,  by  tumbling,  as  you  remember,  down 


MAN    IS   BEST    AS    HE    IS.  153 

stairs.  It  was  but  cured  a  week  ago  ;  feel  here, 
papa  : — there  ;   that's  the  place. 

Mr.  H.  I  feel  the  scar,  indeed. 

Roic.  What  pleasure  it  would  be  to  play  with 
Pompey,  and  not  fear  the  rogue  would  bite  me. 
And  besides,  when  I  am  old  enough  to  be  a  sol- 
dier, and  go  to  battle,  I  should  laugh  at  balls 
and  bullets.  Nay,  my  head  would  blunt  the 
broadest  sword  that  struck  it :  would  not  that  be 
vastly  pretty  ? 

Mr.  H.  That  it  would,  indeed. 

Row.  In  that  case  we  should  want  for  nothing  ; 
we  should  be  quite  perfect ;  should  we  not,  papa  ? 

Mr.  H.  (taking  out  an  orange)  See  here,  my  lit- 
tle fellow  !  smell  this  orange. 

Row.  O  how  fine  f  It  must  be  very  good  to  eat. 
Do  you  design  giving  it  me,  for  having  settled  mat- 
ters better  than  my  brother? 

Mr.  H.  No  ;  it  is  not  for  you. 

Tin.  For  me,  then  ? 

Mr.  H.  Nor  for  you.  I  mean  it  for  a  certain — 
I  don't  know  if  I  should  say,  a  certain  person  ;  but 
however  that  be — one  more  perfect  than  you  are. 

Vin.  And  who  is  that,* -papa? 

Mr.  H.  You  will  wonder,  very  likely,  when  I  tell 
you  who  : — that  negro  figure  on  my  chimney-piece. 

Row.  You  joke,  papa  !  why,  he  can  neither  see, 
nor  eat,  nor  smell. 

Mr.  H.  And  yet  he's  made  of  iron. 

Row.  Yes  :  and  for  that  very  reason  he  cannot. 

Mr.  H.  You  would  certainly  have  sacrificed  the 
satisfaction   that   results    from    seeing,   eating,   and 


154  MAN    IS    BEST    AS    HE    IS. 

smelling,  to  the  boast  that  you  could  never  break 
your  head  by  falling  from  my  chimney-piece  :  for 
were  you  made  of  iron,  as  you  wished,  you  would 
be  only  fit  to  stand  there  with  my  other  bronzes. 

Roto.  O,  I  don't  mean  so,  papa  ;  I  would  be  liv- 
ing while  I  had  this  iron  body. 

Mr.  H.  And  how  then  could  it  be  animated  by 
that  blood,  and  those  juices  that  keep  up  our  life  1 
By  what  means  could  its  nerves  be  flexible,  and 
have  that  sensibility  which  makes  us  so  expert  or 
ready  in  the  use  of  every  limb,  and  renders  the  en- 
joyment of  our  senses  so  delightful  ? 

Roto.  O  dear  me  !  I  see  my  scheme  is  hardly 
better  than  my  brother's. 

Vin.  But,  papa,  since  you're  so  clever  in  destroy- 
ing our  plans,  it  is  your  turn  to  provide  us  with  a 
better  in  their 'stead. 

Mr.  H.  And  why  should  I  provide  one .?  I  am 
marvellously  satisfied  with  that  which  God's  provi- 
dence has  already  established.  Yes,  dear  children, 
I  am  sensible  that  we  are  completely  furnished  with 
whatever  can  promote  our  happiness  ;  superior  in 
our  conformation  to  all  other  animals,  we  tame  by 
virtue  of  our  genius  the  Small  number  of  those  that 
in  strength  surpass  us.  If  we  have  not  the  rapidity 
of  stags  and  hors*es,  we  can  make  that  composition 
which  will  overtake  the  one  while  he  is  running  from 
us,  and  mount  the  other,  to  direct  him  whither 
we  think  proper.  We  have  not  the  wings  of  a  bird, 
yet  we  can  give  wings  to  those  tall  trees  that  grow 
in  forests  ;  and  when  moulded  into  masts,  and  put 
o»  shipboard,   visit   the  remotest   distances.     Our 


MAN^S    BEST    AS    HE    IS.  155 

sight,  less  piercing  than  an  insect's,  is  not  bounded 
to  the  narrow  space    in  which  we  move   about,  but 
can  take  in   an  ample  horizon,  and  contemplate  the 
great    miracles  of  nature.     We  are  unable  to  gaze 
like  an  eagle,  at  the  sun  ;  but  we  invent  an  instru- 
ment shat  seems  to  draw  us  nearer  to  that  luminary, 
so  that  we  may  measure  his   immensity  of  distance, 
and  observe  the   place   which   he  possesses  in  the 
midst  of  an  infinity  of  stars,  obscured  by  his  superi- 
or brightness.       Every    other  sense  that  we   have 
contributes  likewise  to    procure  us  a  succession  of 
enjoyments,  and  effect  our  safety.      Conscious  of  our 
genius,  we  are  every  day  in  search  of  new  discov- 
eries ;   we  disarm  the  thunder,  or  tell    it    where  to 
fall  ;  we  make  one  element  resist  another  ;  we  oppose 
the    beneficial  warmth  of  fire  to  the  inclemency  of 
frost  ;   and  keep  the  land  from  being  overflowed  by 
inundations.     Sometimes  we  descend  into  the  dark- 
est bowels  of  the  earth,  and  bring  out   hence  those 
precious  metals  which  are  purified  ;  and  then,  by  an 
ingenious  mode  of  mixing  them  together,  form  new 
substances.     And    sometimes    we    mark   out  those 
rocks    that    hang    just  ready    to    fall    upon    our 
heads,    precipitate  them    from  their  height   into  the 
vallies,    and    soon    after    make    them    re-ascend  in 
sumptuous  edifices,  or  in  stately  pyramids  that  pile 
their  summits  in   the  clouds.     The  society  that  we 
form    with    our  fellow  creatures  for  the  satisfaction 
of  our  mutual   wants,  obtains   us,  in  return  for  our 
our  own  toil,  the  labour  of  ten  thousand  hands,   all 
eager  to  procure  us  the  conveniences  of  life.    Upon 
whatever  side  we  turn,  we  have  at  our  command  the 


156  MAN    IS    BEST    AS    ^E    IS. 

various  products  of  the  universe,  all  brought  togeth- 
er for  our    use.     The   sciences  exalt  our  soul,  and 
charm  our  faculties.    The  arts,  by  having  introduced 
such   numberless  machines,  assist    us  in  our  labour, 
or  refresh  us  when  we  seek  repose.     Both  memory 
and  reflection  give  us  the  advantages  enjoyed  by  all 
who  have  preceded  us.     Together  with  the  pleasing 
idea  of  our  own   personal   existence,  we  derive  hap- 
piness from  others   also,  by  the  virtues  of  compas- 
sion   and  beneficence,    and    by    the  connexions  of 
kindred  and  friendship.     Nevertheless,  our  happi- 
ness depends  upon  ourselves  alone,  amid  the  host  of 
creatures  that  surround  us,  being    sure  of  obtaining 
it   if  we  but  moderately  use  our  strength,  and  make 
a 'constant  application  of  our  reason  to   the  business 
of  determining  our  conduct.     So  that,  if  we  ever  in- 
terrupt our  happiness    by    going    further  than  we 
should  do,   we  have   nothing  to  blame  in  that  case 
but  our  own  fully.     We  then  seem  children  as  you 
are,  who,  instead  of  gratefully  enjoying  the  conven- 
iences and  comforts  of  our  situation,  and  courageous- 
ly   enduring    its  few   evils,  vex  ourselves  with  wish- 
ing for  ideal  blessings,  or  disgrace  our  nature  with  a 
lack  of  manly  courage.     Man  is  best  as  he  is. 

Vin.    Well,  papa,  upon  the   whole,  you  must  be 

right. 

Row.  Yes,  I  think  so  too  ;  else  that  parrot  I 
tried  to  reach  would  have  been  a  monstrous  great 
bird  to  stuff  and  hang  up  in  a  room,  had  he  been  as 
large  in  proportion  as  I  wanted  to  be. 


157 


OLD    COLIN. 

Mr.  Dexter,  Percival  his  son. 

Percival.  Papa,  I  know  a  very  good  servant  to 
recommend  to  you,  when  you  discharge  old  Colin. 

Mr.  Dexter.  Who  has  given  you  that  commis- 
sion ?     Have  I  any  thoughts  of  sending  him  away  1 

Per.  Would  you  always  keep  that  old  fellow  ? 
I  think  a  young  servant  would  do  much  better 
for  us. 

Mr.  D.  How,  Percival  1  That  is  a  very  bad 
reason  for  being  tired  of  a  good  servant.  You  call 
him  an  old  fellow.  Child,  you  ought  to  blush  for  it. 
It  was  in  my  service  that  he  has  grown  old  ;  and  per- 
haps the  cares  which  he  took  of  your  infancy,  and 
the  sorrow  that  he  felt  for  your  fits  of  illness,  have 
hastened  on  old  age.  You  see  then  how  ungrate- 
ful and  unreasonable  it  would  be  to  take  an  aversion 
to  him  on  account  of  his  age.  And  do  you  think 
yourself  any  better  founded  in  saying  that  a  young 
servant  would  answer  our  purpose  ?  That  decision 
is  above  your  age,  and  requires  more  experience 
than  you  can  possess.  At  another  time  I  will  show 
you  the  advantage  that  an  old  servant  has  above  a 
young  one  in  diligent  ^nd  faithful  service. 

Per.  I  believe  it,  papa,  since  you  say  so.  But  he 
wears  a  wig ;  and  it  is  so  droll  to  see  a  man  in  a  wig 
standingbehindyour  chair  at  dinner.  lean  hardly  turn 
my  eyes  towards  him,  without  being  ready  to  laugh. 

Mr.  D.  That  does  not  show  a  good  disposition, 
14  vol.  2. 


158  OLD  COLIN. 

boy.  I  should  never  have  suspected  you  of  it.  Do 
you  not  know  that  he  lost  his  hair  in  a  long  and 
dangerous  illness  ?  To  ridicule  him,  is  it  not  to  in- 
sult God  who  sent  his  sickness  upon  him  1 

Per.  But  he  is  always  grumbling,  and  is  not  so 
merry  as  the  other  servants. 

Mr.  D.  Colin  may  be  serious,  but  is  not  a  grum- 
bler. It  is  true,  he  is  not  so  nimble  as  a  young  man 
of  eighteen  or  twenty  ;  but  does  he  incur  your 
dislike  on  that  account  ?  O  son,  that  thought  make* 
me  shudder  !  Then  you  will  have  an  aversion  to» 
me,  too,  if  God  should  grant  me  a  long  life  ? 

Per.  O  no,  papa  :  I  am  not  so  wicked. 

Mr.  D.  And  do  you  think  it  is  not  so  to  hate 
Colin,  because  his  age  hinders  him  from  being  so 
alert  as  formerly  ? 

Per.  I  am  wrong,  papa,  I  confess  ;  and  I  assure 
you  I  am  very  sorry  for  having — 

Mr.  D.  Why  do  you  stop  1  For  what  are  you 
sorry  ? 

Per.  If  I  discover  my  fault  to  you,  perhaps  you 
will  be  angry  with  me,  and  I  shall  gain  nothing  by 
it    but    punishment. 

Mr.  D.  You  know,  child,  that  I  am  not  fond  of 
punishing,  and  that  I  try  that  method  very  seldom. 
It  is  by  kindness  and  good  advice  that  I  endeavour 
to  correct  you  and  your  sister.  I  do  not  know 
what  fault  you  have  committed,  therefore  cannot 
promise  absolutely  not  to  chastise  you.  Is  it  on 
those  terms  that  you  intend  to  make  a  confession? 
You  know  my  affection  for  you.  That  is  the  only 
security  that  1  can  give  you  ;  and  you  may  depend 


OLD  COLIN.  159 

on  it  with  as  much  confidence  as  on   ray  promise. 

Per.  Well,  papa,  I  own  that — I  called  Colin — an 
old  rogue. 

Alr.D.  How  ?  is  it  possible  ?  Could  you  so  far 
forget  how  you  should  behave  to  an  honest  man  ? 
And  did  he  hear  you  ? 

Per.  Yes,  papa ;  and  that  is  what  troubles  me 
the  most. 

Mr.  D.  It  is  very  well  to  be  sorry.  But  it  is  not 
enough  to  be  concerned  for  having  affronted  one  of 
our  fellow-creatures  to  his  face;  you  ought  to  feel 
the  same  sorrow  for  affronting  him  in  his  absence. 

Per.  Yes,  I  am  sorry  to  have  used  Colin  ill  at 
all  ;  but  what  grieves  me  most,  is,  that  I  treated  him 
so  ill  before  his  face  ;  for — 

Air.  D.  You  have  begun  to  open  your  heart  to 
me,  I  conclude. 

Per.  Yes,  papa — for  Colin,  when  I  used  him  so 
ill  shed  tears,  and  said,  the  pains  and  infirmities 
of  my  old  age  are  not  enough,  but  I  must  moreover 
be  the  laughter  of  childhood. 

Mr.  D.  Poor  Colin  !  I  know  him  well.  That 
ill  treatment  would  go  to  his  heart.  It  is  indeed 
hard  at  his  age  to  be  the  laughing-stock  of  a  child. 
But  how  much  more  must  he  suffer  in  receiving  this 
treatment  from  a  child  whom  he  has  known  from  his 
birth,  and  served  with  an  attachment  that  can  never 
be  requited. 

Per.  Ah,  papa,  how  much  am  I  to  blame  !  I  will 
ask  his  pardon,  and  be  assured    that  in   all    my  life 
he  shall  never  have  reason  to  complain  of  me. 
Mr.  D.  Very  well,  child  ;  on  this  condition  alone 


160  OLD    COLIN. 

God  and  I  can  pardon  you.  We  are  all  weak,  and 
liable  to  be  carried  away  by  our  passions  for  a  mo- 
ment. But  when  we  return  to  ourselves,  we  must 
thoroughly  repent  of  our  fault ;  we  must  force  our 
pride  to  make  amends  for  it,  and  use  all  our  resolu- 
tion to  avoid  it  for  the  future.  But  1  wish  to  know 
what  could  make  you  behave  so  ungenerously  to 
Colin.     Had  he  offended  you  ? 

Per.  Yes,  papa — At  least  I  thought  so.  I  was 
playing  with  my  pop-gun,  and  aimed  to  shoot  a  pea 
at  his  face.  Have  done,  Master  Percival,  says  he, 
or  I  shall  complain  to  your  father.  1 1  is  threat- 
ening made  me  angry,  and  then  I  called  him  names. 

Mr.  D.  It  was  on  purpose,  then,  that  you  strove 
to  vex  him  ? 

Per.  I  cannot  deny  it. 

Mr.  D.  That  aggravates  your  fault ;  and  that 
was  what  made  him  shed  tears. 

Per.  Ah,  papa,  if  you  give  me  leave,  I  will  go  to 
him  this  moment,  and  ask  his  pardon.  I  shall  not 
be  easy  until  he  forgives  me. 

Mr.D.  Yes,  child  ;  we  should  never  put  off  for  a 
moment  the  performance  of  our  duty.  I  shall  wait 
for  you  here.  {Percival goes  out  and  returns  short- 
ly after  with  an  air  of  satisfaction.) 

Per.  Papa,  now  I  am  pleased  with  myself.  Col- 
in has  forgiven  me  with  all  his  heart :  and  I  do 
not  think  that  I  shall  ever  commit  the  same  fault 
again. 

Mr.  D.  God  forbid  that  you  should  !  Without 
his  grace  you  can  never  answer  for  the  firmest  reso- 
lution. 


OLD    COLIN.  161 

Per.  And  what  should  I  do  for  that  purpose? 

Mr.  D.  Pray  for  his  assistance.  He  will  never 
refuse  it  to  you. 

Per.  I  will  pray  for  it  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart.  But,  papa,  there  is  another  thing  that  I 
have  just  now  done  without  your  leave,  and  which 
perhaps  will  make  you  angry. 

Mr.  D.  What  is  that,  child  1 

Per.  The  new  crown  that  you  gave  me  as  a  present 
on  my  birth-day,  1  have  given  to  Colin. 

Mr.  D.  Why  should  I  be  angry  at  that?  I  am 
very  well  pleased  that  you  should  do  good  actions 
of  yourself,  without  acquainting  me.  You  may  dis- 
pose of  all  the  money  that  I  give  you.  It  is  your 
own ;  and  you  could  not  make  a  better  use  of  it. 
We  should  early  accustom  ourselves  to  a  prudent 
generosity.     Did  Colin  seem  satisfied  ? 

Per.  He  dropped  tears  of  joy  and  I  was  pleased 
to  see  it. 

Mr.  D.  I  applaud  you  for  that  sentiment,  my  boy. 
A  humane  heart  always  rejoices  to  soften  the  dis- 
tresses of  his  fellow  creatures.  All  the  virtues  pro- 
duce joy  in  our  souls,  but  none  fills  them  with  sen- 
sations more  delightful  and  more  lasting  than  ben- 
eficence. 

Per.  If  ever  I  possess  the  means,  I  will  relieve 
all  those  about  me  who  are  in  distress. 

Mr.  D.  My  last  prayer  to  heaven  will  be  to 
strengthen  this  virtue  in  your  heart,  and  to  render 
you  capable  of  putting  it  in  practice. 


14* 


162  OLD    COLIN. 

Per.  And  shall  I  be  every  time  so  well  pleased 
as  to-day  ? 

Mr.  D.  It  is  the  only  pleasure  that  never  dimin- 
ishes. Endeavour  above  all  things  to  enjoy  it  in 
your  family.  If  your  servants  are  honest  people, 
you  ought  to  gain  their  affections  more  by  kind 
treatment  than  money  ;  and  at  the  same  time  not 
neglect  to  make  them  small  presents  now  and  then. 
If  you  bestow  them  seasonably,  and  with  a  good 
grace,  you  will  make  your  servants  your  firmest 
friends. 

Per.   But,  papa,  have  they  not  their  wages  1 

Mr.D.  They  have  wages  for  their  service;  nothing 
else.  But  small  presents  will  create  affection  in 
them,  and  they  will  go  beyond  their  duty. 

Per.  I  do  not  understand  you  very  well,  papa. 

Mr.  D.  Colin  will  serve  as  an  instance  to  explain 
my  meaning.  I  give  him  his  wages,  his  clothing, 
and  his  food,  for  serving  me.  When  he  has  served 
me,  are  we  not  quit1?  Does  he  owe  me  any  thing 
more?  At  the  same  time,  you  know,  he  takes  care 
of  every  thing  in  the  house  ;  he  has  of  himself  un- 
dertaken the  trouble  of  inspecting  the  other  ser- 
vants, and  he  has  often  saved  me  great  expences. 
He  does  all  this  through  good-will,  without  any  par- 
ticular order  ;  because  I  have  interested  his  gratitude 
by  occasional  presents.  When  your  years  will  al- 
low you  to  mix  in  the  world,  you  will  hear  nothing 
in  every  family  but  complaints  of  the  negligence 
and  ingratitude  of  servants.  Be  assured,  my  dear, 
that  the  fault   oftener  lies  in  the  masters,   who  en- 


OLD    COLIN.  163 

deavour  to  inspire  them  with  fear,  rather  than  with 
attachment. 

Per.  Now  I  understand  you  perfectly;  and  I  will 
one  day  make  use  of  your  instructions  and  your 
exampie. 

Mr.  D.  You  will  never  have  reason  to  repent 
following  them.  I  inherited  them  from  my  father 
and  shall  always  remember  what  he  used  to  tell  us 
to  this  purpose. 

Per.  Papa,  if  it  be  not  too  much  trouble.  I  should 
be  glad  to  hear  the  story. 

^fr.  D.  I  take  pleasure  in  making  you  this  re- 
turn for  acknowledging  your  fault,  and  for  your  gen- 
erosity to  honest  Colin.  "  Captain  Flood,  a  brave 
officer  who  had  retired  from  service,  lived  upon 
his  estate,  with  his  wife,  an  amiable  lady,  and  five 
children  worthy  of  such  excellent  parents.  The  in- 
habitants of  the  neighbourhood  possessed  the  great- 
est respect  for  them,  and  this  family  all  together 
formed  the  most  pleasing  sight  imaginable.  The 
sweetness  of  Mr  Flood's  disposition,  and  the  good 
order  that  subsisted  in  his  family,  gained  him  the 
goodwill  and  admiration  of  all  who  had  the  hap- 
piness of  knowing  him.  The  young  people  in  those 
parts  were  eager  to  be  in  his  service  ;  and  whenever 
a  place  was  vacant  in  his  family  by  a  servant  dying 
or  going  away,  it  was  sought  as  a  desirable  situation. 
Content  appeared  in  the  faces  of  all  his  people. 
To  see  them,  one  would  have  taken  them  for  duti- 
ful children  round  their  father.  His  orders  were  so 
just  and  so  moderate,  that  not  one  of  them  had  a 
thought    of    disobeying    him.       Harmony    reigned 


164  OLD    COLIN. 

among  them  as  among  brothers.  If  ever  they  dis- 
puted, it  was,  which  had  most  zeal  in  the  service  of 
■their  master,  and  most  attachment  to  his  interest. 

Mr.  Fulmer,  who  was  formerly  an  intimate  of 
Captain  Flood,  and  had  like  him  retired  to  his  es- 
tate in  another  county,  stopped  one  day  at  his 
house,  in  passing  that  road  to  London.  After  a 
•variety  of  discourses,  the  conversation  fell  at  last 
upon  the  disagreeable  circumstances  frequently 
attending  the  care  of  a  family.  Mr.  Fulmer  com- 
plained of  the  fatiguing  employment  of  watching 
over  servants;  that  he  had  never  found  any  but 
such  as  were  insolent,  idle,  or  inattentive  to  their 
master's  business. 

As  to  that,  said  Mr.  Flood,  I  cannot  complain  of 
mine.  For  ten  years  I  have  had  no  weighty  sub- 
ject of  displeasure.  I  am  very  well  satisfied  with 
•them,  and  they  are  satisfied  with  me. 

That  is  a  happiness  not  very  common,  said  Mr. 
Fulmer.  You  must  have  some  particular  secret  for 
^making  good  servants  and  keeping  them  in  that  per- 
fection. 

The  secret  is  very  simple,  answered  Mr  Flood  ; 
;and  here  it  is,  continued  he,  pointing  to  a  small 
■desk. 

1  do  not  understand  you,  said  Mr.  Fulmer ;  but 
Mr.  Flood,  without  making  any  reply,  opened  the 
desk.  It  contained  six  drawers,  with  these  titles. 
Extraordinary  expences. — Fur  myself. — For  my 
wife — Servants  wages. — Gratuities  to  Servants. — 
As  I  have  always  by  me,  resumed  Mr.  Flood, a  year's 
rent  of  my  estate  beforehand,  I  make  six  portions  of 


OLD    COLIN.  165 


it  at  the  beginning  of  every  year.  In  the  first  draw- 
er I  put  a  certain  sum  for  unforeseen  occasions  :  In 
the  second,  what  I  intend  for  my  own  expences. 
The  third  contains  the  money  necessary  for  the  do- 
mestic charges  of  the  family,  and  my  wife's  pin- 
money.  The  fourth,  sufficient  for  the  proper  edu- 
cation of  my  children.  The  wages  of  my  servants 
are  the  fifth  ;  and  in  the  sixth,  are  the  gratuities  that 
I  bestow  on  them.  It  is  to  this  last  drawer  that  I 
owe  the  happiness  of  never  having  bad  servants. 
Their  wages  are  for  what  their  duty  requires  of 
them.  But  the  presents,  which  I  distribute  to  them 
occasionally,  are  for  the  performance  of  what  is  not 
strictly  comprised  within  their  duty;  for  services  in 
which  their  affection  for  me  anticipates  my  orders 
and  my  wishes." 


THE    VINE    STUMP. 

Mr.  Sutton  being  at  his  country-house  in  the 
spring,  went  out  with  his  son  Julius  to  walk  in  his 
garden.  The  violet  and  primrose  were  in  their 
bloom,  and  many  trees  began  already  to  show  their 
budding  verdure,  and  to  be  clothed  in  white  and 
crimson  blossoms. 

They  went  by  chance  into  a  summer-house,  at 
the  foot  of  which  rose  a  vine-stump,  twisting  wild- 
ly, and  stretching  its  naked  branches,  in  a  rude  ir- 
regular manner. 

"  Papal"  cried  Julius,  "  see  this  ugly  tree,  how 
it  points  at  me  !  why  don't  you  bid  Martin  grub  it 


166  THE    VINE    STUMP.  ^  *r  2 

up  and  make  firewood  of  it  V  At  the  same  time 
he  began  to  pull  at  it,  in  order  to  tear  it  up,  but  its 
roots  had  taken  too  firm  hold  in  the  earth.  "  Do 
not  molest  it,"  said  Mr.  Sutton  to  his  son,  "  I  will 
have  it  stand  as  it  is,  and  at  the  proper  time  I  shall 
tell  you  my  reasons." 

Julius.  But,  papa,  see  close  by  it  those  lively 
blossoms  of  the  lilac  and  the  laurustinus.  Why 
is  it  not  as  well  adorned  as  they  are,  if  it  is  to  be 
kept  1  it  spoils  and  disfigures  the  garden.  Shall  I 
go  and  tell  Martin  to  pluck  it  up  ? 

Mr.  S.  No,  my  dear,  I  tell  you  I  will  have  it 
stand  as  it  is,  at  least  a  little  longer. 

Julius  persevered  in  condemning  it :  his  father 
tried  to  divert  his  attention  to  other  objects,  and 
the  unfortunate  vine-stump  was  forgotten. 

Mr.  Sutton's  affairs  called  him  to  a  distant  part 
of  the  country.  He  set  off  the  next  day  and  did  not 
return  till  the  middle  of  autumn.  His  first  care  was 
to  visit  his  country-house,  whither  he  brought  his 
son  once  more.  The  day  being  very  hot,  they 
went  to  enjoy  the  shade  of  the  summer-house. 
"  Ah,  papa,"  said  Julius,  tc  what  a  charming  green 
shade  !  I  thank  you  for  having  that  ugly  dry  stump 
plucked  up,  that  I  was  so  uneasy  to  see  last  spring, 
and  for  putting  in  its  place  this  handsome  shrub,  to 
give  me  an  agreeable  surprise.  What  delightful 
fruit !  see,  these  fine  grapes,  some  purple,  others 
almost  black.  There  is  not  a  single  tree  in  the 
garden  that  looks  so  well.  They  have  all  lost  iheir 
fruit,  but  this  ; — see  how  it  is  covered  ;  see  those 
large  green  leaves  that  hide  the  clusters.    I  should 


THE    VINE    STUMP.  167 

like  to  know  if  the  fruit  be  as  good  as  it  appears 
handsome." 

Mr.  Sutton  gave  him  a  grape  to  taste.  This  re- 
newed his  joy  ;  and  how  much  was  it  enlivened 
when  his  father  informed  him  that  from  those  ber- 
ries was  produced  that  delicious  liquor  which  he 
sometimes  tasted  after  dinner.  "  You  seem  to  be 
astonished,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Sutton — '•'  I  should 
surprise  you  much  more,  were  I  to  tell  you  that 
this  is  the  same  crooked  mis-shapen  stump  that 
pointed  at  you  in  the  spring.  I  will  go,  if  you 
choose,  and  order  Martin  to  pluck  it  up,  and  make 
fire-wood  of  it." 

Julius.  O  by  no  means,  papa  :  let  him  take  all 
the  others  in  the  garden  before  this.  I  do  like  the 
grapes  so  well  ! 

Mr.  S.  You  see  then,  Julius,  that  I  did  well  in 
not  following  your  advice.  What  has  happened  to 
you,  happens  frequently  in  the  world.  We  see  a 
child  ill-clothed,  and  of  an  unpleasing  outside  ap- 
pearance ;  we  despise  him,  and  grow  proud  on 
comparing  ourselves  with  him  ;  we  even  carry  our 
cruelty  sometimes  so  far  as  to  speak  to  him  with 
insulting  words.  Beware,  my  child,  of  such  hasty 
judgments.  In  this  person,  so  little  favoured  by  na- 
ture, dwells  perhaps  an  exalted  soul,  which  will  one 
day  astonish  the  world  by  its  great  virtues,  or  en- 
lighten it  by  its  knowledge.  It.  is  a  rugged  stem, 
but  may  produce  the  noblest  fruits. 


168 


THE  SILK  DRESS. 

Little  Isabel  had  worn  nothing  but  a  plain 
white  or  gingham  frock,  till  she  was  eight  years 
old.  Neat  red  morocco  shoes  set  off  her  small 
feet,  and  her  ebon  hair  floated  in  graceful  ringlets 
upon  her  shoulders. 

She  happened  one  day  to  go  into  the  company  of 
certain  little  girls,  who,  though  not  older  than 
herself,  were  dressed  already  like  great  ladies  ;  and 
the  richness  of  their  clothes  awakened  in  her 
heart  the  first  vain  notions  she  had  ever  had. 

Dear  mamma,  said  she,  on  her  return  from  the 
house  where  she  had  met  these  fine  ladies,  I  have 
seen  this  afternoon  the  three  Miss  Chadwicks,  I 
suppose  you  know  them.  She  that's  eldest  must 
be  younger  than  myself.  O  dear  mamma,  how 
sweetly  they  were  dressed  !  Their  parents  must 
have  a  deal  of  pleasure  in  seeing  them  so  fine  !  I 
dare  say  they  are  not  so  rich  as  you ;  so  give  me 
if  you  please,  a  fine  silk  slip,  with  such  embroi- 
dered shoes  as  they  had  on ;  and  let  my  hair  be 
dressed  by  Mr.  Frizzle,  who,  they  tell  me,  is  the 
most  fashionable. 

Mother.  I  desire  no  less,  if  doing  so  will  con- 
tribute to  your  satisfaction  ;  but  I  fear,  with  all 
this  elegance,  you'll  not  find  yourself  quite  so 
happy  as  you  have  hitherto  been,  in  the  simplicity 
of  suc,h  plain  dresses  as  you  are  used  to. 

Isabel.     And  why  so,  mamma  ? 


THE    SILK    DRESS.  lb!* 

Mother.  Because  you  will  be  always  afraid  of 
)otting  and  rumpling  whatever  you  wear,  A 
dress  so  elegant  as  the  Miss  Chadwicks  will  require 
the  greatest  study  and  attention  in  the  wear,  that 
it  may  do  you  honour.  If  it  gets  one  spot,  the 
beauty  will  be  lost  forever,  as  we  cannot  put  it  in 
the  wash  to  recover  its  first  lustre  ;  and  however 
rich  you  may  suppose  me,  1  am  not  rich  enough 
to  let  you  have  a  new  silk  dress  whenever  you  may 
want  one. 

Isabel.  O,  if  that  be  all,  mamma,  don't  make 
yourself  uneasy.     I'll  be  very  careful  of  it. 

Mother.  Will  you  1  Well  then,  I  must  give 
you  such  a  dress;  but  remember,  I  have  hinted 
what  uneasiness  your  vanity  may  cause  you. 

Unpersuaded  by  the  wisdom  of  this  counsel, 
Isabel  did  not  lose  a  moment  in  destroying  all  the 
pleasure  and  enjoyment  of  her  infancy.  Her  hair, 
that  had  till  then  hung  down  at  liberty,  was  now 
confined  in  paper,  and  squeezed  close  be- 
tween a  burning  pair  of  tongs;  and  that  fine  jet 
which  had  till  now  so  happily  set  off  the  whiteness 
of  her  forehead,  disappeared  beneath  a  clod  of 
powder  and  pomatum. 

Two  days  after,  Isabel  had  a  handsome  dress 
brought  home  of  pea-green  with  fine  pink  trim- 
mings, and  a  pair  of  straw-worked  shoes  to  match 
them.  Their  inimitable  taste,  propriety,  and 
freshness,  charmed  the  eye  ;  but  when  she  had 
them  on,  it  was  evident  her  limbs  were  under 
great  constraint ;  her  motions  had  no  longer  their 
15  vol.  2. 


170  THE  SILK  DRESS. 

accustomed  ease  and  freedom  ;  and  her  infant 
countenance,  amid  so  vast  a  quantity  of  flowers, 
silk,  gauze,  and  ribands,  entirely  lost  every  trace 
of  ingenuous  simplicity. 

She  was,  notwithstanding,  quite  enchanted  at 
her  metamorphosis.  Her  eyes  with  great  satisfaction 
wandered  over  her  whole  little  person,  and  were 
never  taken  off,  except  when  she  looked  about  her, 
to  find  some  glass  in  the  apartment  that  might 
represent  at  full  length  the  idol  she  then  worship- 
ped. 

She  had  persuaded  her  mamma  to  send  out 
cards  of  invitation  to  her  little  friends,  in  order 
that,  when  they  came  to  visit  her,  she  might  en- 
joy their  surprise  and  admiration.  And  when 
they  had  all  met  together,  she  strutted  about  be- 
fore them,  like  a  peacock  displaying  its  gaudy 
feathers.  To  judge  from  her  behaviour,  she  fancied 
herself  at  least  an  empress,  and  considered  those 
about  her  as  subjects  of  her  empire.  But,  alas  ! 
this  triumph  was  of  very  short  duration,  and  a 
multitude  of  mortifying  circumstances  followed  it. 

The  children  were  permitted  to  walk  in  the 
fields,  near  that  part  of  the  town  where  she  lived. 
Isabel  therefore  led  the  way,  and  in  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes  they  reached  a  delightful  country. 

A  luxuriant  meadow  first  attracted  their  atten- 
tion. It  was  every  where  enamelled  with  a  variety 
of  charming  flowers;  and  butterflies,  whose  wings 
were  of  a  thousand  mingled  colours,  hovered  in 
each  quarter  of  it.  The  gay  little  ladies  hunted 
these  fine  butterflies  ;   they  dexterously  caught,  but 


THE    SILK   DRESS. 


171 


did  not  hurt  them  ;  and  when  they  had  examined 
all  their  beauty,  let  them  go,  and  with  their  eyes 
pursued  the  little  creatures  as  they  fluttered  here 
and  there.  They  next  employed  themselves  in 
gathering  flowers,  that  sprang  up  in  profusion  in 
the  meadow,  and  making  nosegays  of  them. 

Isabel,  who  from  pride  had  disdained  these 
mean  amusements,  wanted  very  soon  to  share  the 
entertainment  they  afforded  ;  but  the  ground,  they 
told  her,  might  be  damp,  in  which  case  she  would 
stain  her  shoes,  and  damage  her  fine  dress  ;  for 
they  had  discovered  that  her  intention,  in  bringing 
them  together,  was  to  vex  them  with  a  sight  of  her 
fine  clothes,  and  they  were  resolved  to  mortify 
her  in  their  turn. 

She  was  of  course  obliged  to  be  solitary,  and  sit 
still,  while  observing  the  sprightly  cheerfulness 
of  her  companions  who  sported  around  her. 
The  delight  of  contemplating  her  pea-green  dress 
was,  in  comparison,  a  very  sorry  kind  of  entertain- 
ment. 

At  the  corner  of  the  meadow  was  a  little  grove, 
in  which  was  heard  the  music  of  a  thousand  birds, 
that  seemed  as  if  inviting  every  person  that  went 
through  the  meadow,  to  go  thither  and  enjoy  the 
coolness  of  the  shade.  This  grove  our  children 
entered,  jumping  with  joy  as  they  went  along. 
Poor  Isabel  would  have  followed  them,  but  she  was 
told,  that  the  bushes  would  tear  in  pieces  all  her 
trimmings.  She  observed  her  friends  diverting 
themselves  at  puss  in  the  corner ,  and  pursuing  each 


172  THE    SILK    DRESS.  '  .., 

other  through  the  trees.  The  more  she  heard  them 
shout  with  joy,  the  more,  as  might  be  expected, 
was  she  peevish  and  ill-humoured. 

But  the  youngest  of  her  visitors  had  some  sort 
of  compassion  for  her.  She  had  just  found  out  a 
corner  where  grew  a  quantity  of  fine  wild  straw- 
berries, and  beckoned  her  to  come  and  eat  a 
part  of  them.  Isabel  would  willingly  have  done 
so,  but  had  scarcely  entered  the  grove,  when  un- 
expectedly the  children  heard  a  loud  cry.  They 
gathered  to  the  spot  and  found  poorI?abel  fastened, 
by  the  gauze  and  ribands  upon  her  hat,  to  a  branch 
of  white  thorn,  from  which*  she  could  not  by  any 
means  disengage  herself.  They  made  haste  to  un- 
loose the  pins  that  held  her  hat  ;  but  to  add  to 
her  affliction,  her  hair,  which  had  been  frizzled 
with  so  much  labour,  was  entangled  likewise  with 
the  branch  of  white  thorns,  and  it  cost  her  alrrfbst  a 
lock,  before  she  could  be  set  at  liberty  ;  and  thus 
all  at  once  the  charming  superstructure  of  her 
head-dress  was  absolutely  pulled  to  pieces. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  guess  how  little  Isabel's  mis- 
fortunes touched  her  playmates,  when  they  found, 
as  we  have  already  said,  why  she  had  invited 
them.  Instead  of  consolation,  which  she  needed 
and  expected,  they  could  hardly  refrain  from 
laughing  at  her  comical  appearance,  and  actu- 
ally to  jeer  her  with  a  hundred  wicked  witticisms. 
After  having  smoothed  down  her  dress,  they  ran 
off  in  search  of  fresh  amusement,  toward  a  hill 
they  saw  at  a  small  distance. 

Isabel  could  not,  without  great  difficulty,  reach 


THE    SILK    DRESS.  173 

this  hill.  Her  strait  shoes,  that  had  been  made  to 
set  oft*  her  little  feet  to  advantage,  were  a  great 
obstruction  to  her  speed  ;  nor  was  this  all  the  mis- 
chief, for  her  stays  were  drawn  so  close,  she  could 
not  easily  fetch  breath.  She  would  now  have  been 
happy  to  go  home  and  change  her  dress,  that  she 
might  be  at  freedom  ;  but  then  she  knew  her  little 
friends  would  not  consent,  upon  her  account,  to 
be  deprived  of  their  amusement. 

They  had  got  by  this  time  to  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  and  were  enjoying  the  fine  view  which  a 
spacious  horizon  presented  them  on  every  side. 
They  saw  verdant  meadows  ;  yellow  harvests  ; 
rivulets  that  meandered  through  the  country  ;  and 
by  way  of  termination  to  the  landscape,  a  large 
river,  on  whose  banks  were  situated  many  pleasant 
country  houses.  So  magnificent  a  prospect  charm- 
ed them.  They  even  danced  with  joy ;  while 
Isabel  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  (for  she  was  out  of 
breath,  and  could  possibly  get  no  further)  was  over- 
come with  fatigue  and  sorrow. 

She  now  had  time  and  opportunity,  in  this 
situation,  to  make  many  sad  reflections.  To  what 
purpose,  said  she,  are  these  fine  clothes  1  how 
much  pleasure  do  they  prevent  me  from  enjoying  ! 
and  what  pain  do  I  suffer,  merely  from  having  put 
them  on ! 

She  was  freely  giving  her  mind  to  these  afflicting 

thoughts,  when   suddenly  she   heard   her   friends 

come    running   down   the   hill,    and    crying    out 

together,   as  they  passed  her  :    Run,  run,  Isabel ! 

15* 


174  THE  SILK  DRESS. 

there's  a  dreadful  stornv  behind  the  hill ;  it  is 
coming  towards  us.  If  you  don:t  make  haste,  your 
dress  will  be  ruined. 

Isabel  felt  her  strength  return,  in  fear  of  such  a 
great  misfortune  as  her  play-mates  suggested.  She 
forgot  her  weariness,  pinched  feet,  and  tight-laced 
waist,  and  made  tolerable  haste  to  reach  some 
place  of  shelter.  But  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to 
shun  so  grievous  a  misfortune  as  the  spoiling  of 
her  clothes,  she  could  not  run  so  fast  as  her  com- 
panions, who  were  lightly  dressed.  Every  moment 
she  was  stopped,  either  by  her  puffed  sleeves  and 
flounces  in  the  narrow  paths  she  had  to  go  through ; 
or  by  her  train  that  frequently  caught  in  the  furze  ; 
or  by  Monsieur's  fine  scaffold-work  about  her  head, 
upon  which  the  wind  bent  down  the  branches  of  the 
trees  she  was  forced  to  pass  under. 

Now  the  storm  burst  forth  in  all  its  fury ;  and 
there  fell  a  shower  of  hail  and  rain  mixed  together, 
after  all  the  children  except  Isabel  had  regained 
their  several  habitations. 

Isabel  finally  got  home,  her  dress  wet  through 
and  through.  She  had  left  one  of  her  fine  shoes 
behind  her  in  a  heap  of  manure  which,  as  she 
hurried  homewards,  she  had  scrambled  over 
without  seeing  ;  and,  to  increase  the  list  of  her 
disasters,  she  had  hardly  cleared  the  meadow, 
when  a  gust  of  wind  blew  off  her  hat  into  the 
middle  of  a  dirty  pool  of  water. 

They  had  great  trouble  to  undress  her ;  so  much 
had  the  heat  and  rain   even  glued   her   linen    and 


THE  SILK    DRESS.  175 

and  other  garments  to  her  body  ;  her  whole  beauti- 
ful dress  was  spoiled,  and  good  for  nothing. 

Shall  I  have  another  dress  made  up  for  you 
against  to-morrow  ?  said  her  mother,  drily,  seeing 
her  in  tears. 

O  no,  mamma,  said  Isabel,  kissing  her :  lam 
convinced  that  fine  clothes  can  never  make  the 
wearer  happy.  Let  me  take  up  with  my  nice 
white  frock  again  till  I  am  eight  or  ten  years  older ; 
and  forgive  my  folly. 

Isabel,  in  the  simple  dress  of  childhood,  regained 
full  possession  of  her  liberty,  and  seemed  as 
modest  and  charming  as  ever.  Neither  did  her 
mother  regret  the  loss  she  had  experienced  in  the 
purchase  of  this  fine  silk  dress,  since  it  proved  the 
means  of  reinstating  her  beloved  daughter  in  that 
happiness  which  her  vanity  and  folly  would  have 
taken  from  her,  without  the  assistance  of  this 
useful  lesson. 


THE   SCHOOL  FOR  STEPMOTHERS. 


Mrs.  Floyd.    Is  it  you,  my  dear  Francis  ?  then  I  have  all  my  family  togethe 

a.1  last. 


177 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  STEPMOTHERS. 

A  DRAMA    IN    ONE    ACT. 
CHARACTERS. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Floyd. 

Francis,        ^ 

Priscilla,     > Mr.  Floyd's  Children. 

Anne,  3 

pIrc?v"l,       I  Mrs.  Floyd's  Children. 
Daniel,    a  Servant. 

The  Scene  is  in  Mr.  Floyd's  garden. 

SCENE  I. 

Francis,  alone. 

Once  more,  I  am  in  my  garden,  where  I  have 
not  been  these  six  months !  What  a  pleasure  every 
object  gives  me  !  Here  is  the  little  summer  house, 
where  I  used  to  breakfast  so  frequently  with  my  dear 
mamma.  If  she  were  still  living,  what  happi- 
ness for  both  of  ,us  :  She  would  receive  me  now 
with  open  arms  ;  she  would  embrace  me  :  and  I 
should  have  many  little  things  to  tell  her.  But, 
alas!  (beginning  to  cry,)  I  have  for  ever  lost  her; 
and  if  we  are  still  to  love  each  other,  we  can  only 
do  so  in  another  world.  My  dear  mamma,  could 
you  only  hear  me,  it  would  be  some  comfort,  since 
you  cannot  come  back  to  see  your  Frank.  Instead 
of  you,  I  have  indeed  a   mother;  but  a  mother,  as 


178  SCHOOL    FOR    STEPMOTHERS. 

they  call  it,  in  law  :  and  that,  as  I  am  told,  is  just 
as  much  as  if  one  were  to  say,  a  cruel  mother. 
What  then  ami  to  do  ?  I  never  shall  dare  look 
upon  her.  O,  if  I  might  at  least  have  lived  with 
grandmamma!  But  it  cannot  be;  papa  will  have 
me  here,  though  poor  mamma  is  dead.  Alas,  I 
never  shall  be  able  to  live  here:  I  know  it.  I  will 
therefore  only  see  my  dear  papa  and  sisters,  and 
go  back.  Yes,  yes  ;  I  will  go  back,  and  must. 
Enter  Daniel. 

Dan.  What,  master  Francis  ?  is  it  you  come 
back  again  ?     How  goes  it  with  you  ? 

Fran.  In  health,  not  much  amiss,  dear  Daniel. 
And  pray  how  are  you  1 

Dan.  Quite  well ;  not  a  penny  for  the  apoth- 
ecary out  of  me  !  My  draughts  are  made  up  for  me 
at  the  George.  But  what  is  the  matter  1  I  see  you 
have  been  crying. 

Fran,    {wiping  his  eyes)    Crying  ? 

Dan.  Yes,  yes,  crying  !  O,  you  cannot  conceal 
it.     Have  you  met  with  any  accident  ? 

Fran.  None,  Daniel,  since  I  left  my  grand- 
mamma's. 

Dan.  O,  O,  I  understand  ;  you  weep  for  your 
mamma  ;  but  then  you  have  another. 

Fran.  A  step-mother  you  mean  ?  If  I  could  on- 
ly shun  her !     But  how  fare  my  poor  dear  sisters  ? 

Dan.  How  ?  ah  !  bad  enough.  At  six  they 
must  be  up.  I  would  not  advise  them  to  lie  a  min- 
ute after.  They  would  pay  dear  for  their  drowsi- 
ness. 

Fran.  But  what  have  they  to  do  up  so  early  ? 


SCHOOL  FOR    STEPMOTHERS.  179 

Dun.  O,  their  new  mother  knows  how  to  find 
them  work  !  She  rules  us  all  like  slaves !  and  I 
myself  must  get  up  with  the  rest  !  I  rose  at  seven 
this  morning  ;  and,  early  as  it  was,  1  saw  both  your 
sisters  hard  at  work  in  the  parlour. 

Fran.   But  I  ask  you,  at  what  ? 

Dan.  Why  working  for  their  young  brothers-in- 
law. 

Fran.  Yes,  I  am  told  that  second  mothers  never 
spare  their  husband's  children,  while  they  love  their 
own  :  and  I  imagine,  I  must  go  to  work  too.  But 
what  has  become  of  all  my  pinks  and  tulips  ? 

Dan.  O,  they  are  all  taken  away ! 

Fran.   By  whom  ? 

Dan.  By  Charles  and  his  brother. 

Fran.  So  then,  I  have  lost  my  pretty  flowers  ; 
and  those  two  wicked  little  fellows  have  destroyed 
them.  They  have  nothing  now  to  do  but  to  take 
the  garden  from  me  likewise.  Look,  here  they 
come. 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  Charles  and  Percival. 

Charles  (whispering  Percival.)  Percival,  who  is 
that  young  gentleman  with  Daniel  1  If  it  were  but 
Master  Francis  ! 

Percival,  [whispering  Daniel  )  Is  it  he  ? 

Dan.  (answering  drill/.)  Yes,  gentlemen. 

Charles.  O,  my  dear,  dear  brother,  welcome ! 
We  have  wished  to  see  you  ! 

Fran,  (shrinking  back)   Have  we  been  acquaint- 


180  SCHOOL  FOR  STEPMOTHERS. 

ed  with  each  other  long  enough,  that  you  should 
thus  embrace  me  1 

Charles.  We  are  not  acquainted  with  you  I  ac- 
knowledge, but  are  all  three  brothers. 

Fran.  Yes,  half  brothers,  sir. 

Charles.  Why  half?  If  your  papa  loves  our 
mamma,  and  she  loves  him,  why  should  not  we  love 
one  another  ?  They  are  man  and  wife,  and  we 
are  therefore  brothers. 

Fran.  If  we  are  brothers,  have  you  a  greater 
right  than  I  have  here  ? 

Percival.  {aside)  How  quarrelsome  he  is  ! 

Charles.  Why  your  papa  has  let  us  work  these 
three  weeks  in  this  garden. 

Fran.  I  was  in  it  first,  and  surely  you  will  not 
drive  me  out  ! 

Percival.  Come,  Charles  ;  let  us  be  gone,  and 
leave  him  in  his  peevish  humour. 

Charles.  No,  no,  Percival  :  we  must  stay  and  be 
good  friends  with  each  other. 

Per.  Do  you  like  the  sulky  fellow,  then,  so  much  ? 

Fran.  The  sulky  fellow  !  do  you  call  me  sulky  ? 

Percival.  Yes,  and  envious,  and — 

Fran.  You  dare  insult  me  then  ?  and  even  in 
my  garden  here  ? 

Percival.  You  began :  but  I  am  your  match  ! 
mind  that ! 

Charles.  Hear  me,  Percival  !  Would  you  strike 
your  brother'?  Come  along,  and  for  Heaven's  sake 
let  us  not  vex  our  new  father  ;  and  more  particu- 
larly so,  the  very  day  that  he  is  to  see  his  son.  (Ac 
draws  him  away.) 


SCHOOL    FOR    STEPMOTHERS.  181 

Percival.  Weil,  I  will  go  and  tell  mamma.  (He 
and  Charles  go  out.) 

SCENE  III. 

Francis  and   Daniel. 

Fran.  See  now  if  my  anxieties  are  not  beginning. 
They  will  tell  their  mother  that  I  have  insulted 
them,  and  she  will  get  me  anger  from  papa.  Un- 
happy as  I  am,  do  not  you  think,  Daniel,  that  I  am 
to  be  pitied  ? 

Dan.  Indeed  you  are  ;  however,  take  heart.  I 
will  be  your  friend  ;  and  we  shall  then,  I  think,  be 
able  to  make  head  against  them. 

Fran.  Yes  ;  but  my  papa  1 

Dan.  Let  me  alone  with  him.  I  know  a  thou- 
sand tricks  of  these  new  comers,  which  I  will  tell 
him.  They  have  spoilt  your  garden,  killed  your 
flowers,  and  called  you  names.  I  warrant  you  they 
will  be  badly  off. 

Fran.  So  then,  my  good  Daniel,  you  will  stand 
up  for  me  ? 

Dan.  Ay,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Daniel. 

Fran.  Thank  you !  thank  you  !  I  am  not  with- 
out a  friend,  I  see  then,  though  I  have  lost  mamma. 
But  did  you  notice  their  fine  clothes  1  What  hand- 
some waistcoats  they  had  on  !  Who  worked  them  ? 
can  you  tell  ? 

Dan.  Their  mother. 

Fran.  Yes,  yes,  I  was  thinking  so.  She  will 
always  be  employed  upon  her  favourites ;  but  pray 
who  will  work  me  such  a  waistcoat  ? 

16  vol.  2. 


/ 


182  SCHOOL    FOR    STEPMOTHERS. 

Dan.  Why  indeed,  if  you  should  want  one  you 
must  work  it  yourself. 

Fran.  And  had  not  they  new  jackets  on  like- 
wise 1 

Dan.  Yes  :  they  had  them  as  a  present  from 
your  papa,  on  the  day  of  his  marriage. 

Fran.  O,  he  did  not  make  me  such  a  present.  I 
was  sent  with  these  old  clothes  into  the  country. 
It  is  too  much  !  1  cannot  support  the  thought  !  My 
poor  mamma  is  dead,  and  my  papa  forgets  me  !  I 
have  only  you  now  left  to  befriend  me  ! 

Dan.  Be  of  comfort!  matters  may  turn  out  much 
better  than  you  think  :  but  in  the  first  place,  yeu 
must  see  your  new  mamma.  So  follow  me,  and 
put  on  a  cheerful  face,  as  if  you  were  rejoiced  to 
see  her. 

Fran.  That  I  can  never  do. 

Dan.  But  you  must,  however  it  may  go  against 
you.  I  do  so,  though  I  detest  her.  Would  you 
think  it?  she  begins  to  tell  me  that  I  must  be  less 
frequent  in  my  visits  to  the  ale-house  ;  I  that  was 
accustomed  to  spend  half  the  day  there,  in  the  life- 
time of  my  last  dear  mistress  !  She  indeed  was 
quite  a  lady.  Things  are  marvellously  altered  now, 
and  we  must  alter  with  them.  Patience  !  when  we 
are  once  alone,  I  will  tell  you  what  more  is  to  be 
done.     At  present  follow  me. 

Fran.  But  will  she  see  by  my  eyes  that  I  have 
been  crying? 

Dan.  Why,  you  are  crying  still. 

Fran.  Then  I  will  not  go  now  :  she  will  ask  the 


SCHOOL    FOR    STEPMOTHERS.  183 

reason  of  ray  tears.  What  answer  should  I  give 
her? 

Dan.  You  might  say,  that  coming  home,  and 
thinking  of  your  dear  mamma,  you  fell  to  crying. 

Fran.  But,  provided  she  should  speak  about  my 
quarrel  with  the  children? 

Dan.  Tell  her  that  they  began  it ;  and  call  me  to 
witness  what  you  say.  But  here  she  comes.  Go 
and  salute  her  boldly. 

Enter  Mrs.  Floyd. 

Mrs.  Floyd.  Where,  where  is  he  ?  Is  it  you, 
my  dearest  Francis  ?  Then  I  have  all  my  family 
together  at  last.  (She  embraces  hiin  with  tender- 
ness.') How  sweet  a  countenance  !  and  how  happy 
am  I,  that  I  can  call  so  amiable  a  child  my  son  ! 

Fran.  I  should  be  happy  too,  could  I  but  rejoice  ; 
and  yet — (sighing.) 

Mrs.  Floyd.  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear?  You 
seem  quite  sad,  my  charming  little  man  !  (Francis 
cries  afresh,  and  cannot  speak  a  word.)  You  turn 
away  and  cry.  What  causes  these  tears  ?  Won't 
you  inform  me  what  afflicts  you? 
Fran.  Nothing,  nothing. 

Mrs.  Floyd.  It  is  enough,  however,  to  distress 
me.  Say,  what  gives  you  all  this  sorrow,  and  I  will 
comfort  you,  if  possible.  If  your  papa  or  sisters 
were  to  see  you,  they  might  fancy  that  you  met 
with  some  misfortune  coming  home:  and  they  are 
pleased  in  thinking  that  they  are  so  soon  to  see  you. 
Would  it  grieve  you  to  embrace  them  ? 

Fran.    Believe   me,  I  can   have  no  greater  plea- 


184  SCHOOL    FOR   STEPMOTHERS. 

sure  !     But  shall  I  embrace  mamma  ?     It  is  for  her 
that  I  cry. 

Mrs.  Floyd.  She  died  six  months  ago,  and  do  you 
still  weep  for  her  ? 

Fran.  Yes,  yes  ;  all  my  life  !  O,  my  mamma  ! 
my  dear  mamma  ! 

Mrs.  Floyd.  Be  calm,  my  little  dear!  Endea- 
vour to  divert  your  thoughts,  and  let  us  speak  of 
her  no  longer,  since  it  gives  you  so  much  sorrow. 

Fran.  No,  no  :  on  the  contrary,  let  me  be  always 
speaking  of  her,  if  you  mean  that  I  should  feel  any 
comfort.  Would  you  have  your  children  so  soon 
forget  you  after  you  were  dead  ? 

Mrs.  Floyd,  Dear  little  fellow  !  (embracing  him.) 
You  loved  her  then  very  much  1 

Fran.  I  find  so  ;  much  more  now  than  when 
she  lived.     She  was  so  good  ! 

Mrs.  Floyd.  I  wish  I  were  but  able  to  restore  her 
to  you ;  which  I  cannot  do,  and  therefore  I  will 
take  her  place,  poor  little  fellow,  in  your  bosom.  I 
will  love  you  as  she  did  :   and  be  a  mother  to  you. 

Fran.  But  it  never  can  be  you  that  bore  me, 
nursed  me,  and  brought  me  up.  She  was  my  real 
mother,  and  you  only  my  step-mother. 

Mrs.  Floyd.  But  why  give  me  such  a  name  ?  I 
have  not  called  you  my  step-son. 

Fran.  Pray  pardon  me  !  I  said  it  not  to  displease 
you.  I  begin  to  think  you  very  kind  ;  at  least  you 
seem  so.  But  then  you  have  children  of  your  own, 
and  must,  of  course,  love  them  much  more  than  me. 

Mrs.  Floyd.  You  shall  not  find  it  so.  Some  few 
days  hence  we  shall   be   more  acquainted   than  we 


SCHOOL  FOR  STEPMOTHERS.  185 

can  be  now,  and   you   shall  see  if  my  affection  will 
not  make  you  think  yourself  my  son. 

Fran.  If  that  could  be  without  forgetting  my 
mamma? — 

Mrs,  Floyd.  I  would  not  wish  you  to  forget  her: 
on  the  contrary,  we  will  speak  often  of  her,  and 
your  tenderness  shall  be  a  pattern  for  my  children. 
Come,  I  long  to  introduce  you  to  them. 

Fran,  O,  J  have  seen  them  already.  Have  they 
not  complained  of  my  behaviour? 

Mrs.  Floyd,  No,  my  little  man.  Have  you  had 
any  quarrel  then  ;  I  should  be  very  sorry  for  that, 
as  all  my  wish  is  to  behold  you  tenderly  united  to 
each  other,  like  real  brothers. 

Fran.  I  wish  nothing  more.  But  where  is  my 
papa  and  sisters  1     Let  me  see  them. 

Mrs.  Floyd.  Your  papa  will  very  soon  be  home. 
He  went  this  morning  to  dispatch  some  business  out 
of  doors,  that  he  might  have  the  afternoon  entirely 
to  himself;  in  the  mean  time,  I  will  take  you  to 
your  sisters,  who  will  tell  you  what  you  are  to  think 
of  me. 

Fran.  I  wish  them  to  speak  of  you,  but  not  first. 
I  have  a  deal  to  say  of  my  mamma,  (as  they  go  out 
Charles  and  Percival  enter  on  the  opposite  side.) 

SCENE  IV. 

Charles,  PercivaL 
Percijal.    Why  did  you  stop  me  from  complain- 
ing to  mamma?     I  keep  company  with   that  little 
snarler !      No,   never.       When   his   father  comes 
16* 


186  SCH90L    FOR    STEPMOTHERS. 

home,  I  will  tell  him  what  a  waspish  son  he  has, 
that  he  may  teach  him  to  behave  a  little  better. 

Charles.  Do  you  think  then  that  papa  will  not 
be  vexed,  when  told  of  this  difference  between  you? 
and  would  it  please  you  to  afflict  him  ? 

Percival.  Certainly  I  should  be  sorry  for  it. 
And  yet,  what  can  I  do  1  since,  if  this  little  gentle- 
man is  not  corrected  for  his  rudeness  the  first  day 
of  coming  home,  there  will  be  nothing  but  disputes 
hereafter.  He  will  be  always  affronting  us.  T  am 
not  very  deliberate  in  such  cases  ;  I  shall  certainly 
be  warm,  and  tell  him  what  he  ought  to  know;  and 
if  hereafter  he  should  think  of  taking  airs  on  him,  as 
just  now 

Charles.  1  hope  then,  Percival,  you  do  not  mean 
to  beat  him  ! 

Percival.  But  you  do  not  suppose  that  I  will  let 
myself  be  beat  for  him  ! 

Charles.  No,  certainly. 

Percival.  Then  what  ought  I  to  do  1 

Charles.  To-morrow,  very  likely,  we  shall  see  ; 
but  now  it  would  be  improper  to  disturb  his  father's 
satisfaction  in  seeing  him. 

Percival.  Be  it  now,  to-morrow,  or  the  following 
day,  it  is  all  the  same  to  Percival  ;  but  the  sooner, 
in  my  opinion,  the  better. 

Charles.  Brother,  I  beseech  you,  wait  a  little 
longer.     Francis  cannot  be  so  sulky  as  you  think. 

Percival.  And  yet,  sure,  I  know  him  as  well  as 
you  1 

Charles.  His  father  and  his  sisters  say  he  is  very 
condescending  and  good-natured. 


SCHOOL    FOR    STEPMOTHERS.  187 

Per  civ  al.  Yes,  indeed,  he  showed  his  condescen- 
sion and  good-nature,  when  he  turned  his  back  upon 
me  in  reply  to  my  civility. 

Charles.  That  was  not  well  ;  but  then  he  does 
not  know  us  yet. 

Percival.  He  might  have  tried  to  know  us. 
Charles.    How   you    talk  !     perhaps    something 
grieved  him. 

Percival.  And  are  we  to  suffer  for  it  1 

Charles.  No ;  but  brothers  must  pass  over  many 
things  which  others  have  a  right  to  take  amiss. 

Percival.  It  appears  to  me  that  he  scorns  to  look 
upon  us  as  brothers. 

Charles.  No  :  I  cannot  persuade  myself  of  that. 

Percival.  Well,  let  him  look  a  little  to  himself:  I 
shall  not  put  up  with  any  insult  from  him.  But 
he's  coming  with  his  sisters;  I  will  withdraw.  I 
cannot  bear  the  thoughts  of  such  a  snappish  gen- 
tleman. 

Charles.  For  heaven's  sake,  brother,  let  us  stay 
and  share  in  their  amusement. 

Percival.  No,  no  :  1  might  possibly  disturb  them, 
and  will  go. 

Charles.  If  you  are  resolved,  I  will  follow  you. — 
(Aside,  going  out.)  I  must  do  everything  in  my 
power  to  soften  him. 

SCENE  V. 
Francis,  Priscilla,  Anne. 
Priscilla,  (holding  Francis  by  the   hand.)     But 
why   afflict   yourself,    dear    brother,    any    longer  ? 
Our  afflictions  cannot  bring  mamma  to  life  again. 


188  SCHOOL    FOR    STEPMOTHERS. 

Fran.  But  will  you  promise  me,  at  least,  that 
we  shall  think  a  little  of  her  every  time  we  meet  ? 

Pris.  Yes,  brother,  I  shall  always  think  I  see  her 
with  us,  just  as  when  she  was  alive. 

Fran,  (affectionately  looking  at  them)  My 
dearest  sisters  !  this  idea  doubles  the  delight  I  have 
in  seeing  you. 

Pris.  Anne  and  I  have  been  wishing,  this  long 
while,  to  see  you  likewise. 

Anne.  And  so  have  I,  brother  ;  for  now  we  can 
play  all  together  as  we  used  to  do.  Charles  and 
his  brother  can  play  with  us  too.  O,  how  fine  that 
will  be  !  (jumping  for  joy .) 

Fran.  Pshaw  !  no  more  about  your  Charles  and 
his  brother,  if  you  love  me. 

Pris.  How  ! 

Fran.  They  would  but  interrupt  our  pastime  : 
they  are  good  for  nothing  but  to  go  complaining  of 
us  to  their  mother,  and  convey  away  our  things. 

Pris.  They,  brother  ?  Can  you  think  so  badly 
of  them] 

Anne.  Look  here,  Frank  ?  (showing  an  etui.) 

Fran.  And  who  gave  you  that  ? 

Anne.  Why,  Percival :  he  went  out  and  bought 
it  for  me,  with  a  crown  that  his  mother  gave  him. 

Pris.  See,  too,  this  morocco  pocket-book.  It 
was  a  present  made  to  Charles;  and  he  gave  it  me. 

Fran.  Ay,  ay  !  I  see  you  understand  each 
other's  meaning,  and  will  all  four  be  against  me. 

Pris,  8f  Anne.   Be  against  you  ! 

Fran.  Certainly.  I  know  they  hate  me,  having 
taken  all  my  flowers  away,  and  spoiled  my  garden. 


SCHOOL    FOR    STEPMOTHERS.  189 

Pris.  Who  has  taken  all  your  flowers  away,  and 
spoiled  your  garden  ? 

Fran.  Those  two  little  fellows  that  you  seem  to 
admire  so  much. 

Pris.  We  do  not  understand  you.  Have  you 
seen  your  garden  ? 

Fran.  Have  I  seen  it  1  What  a  question  !  Only 
look  yourself.     Where  are  rny  pinks  and  tulips  ? 

Pris.  Where  ?  you  have  not  then  been  at  the 
terrace,  under  my  mamma's  bow  window  ? 

Fran.  Is  there  any  garden  there  ? 

Anne.     Ay,  surely  ;  and  ;J  very  pretty  one. 

Pris.  Your  garden  here  was  far  too  little :  so 
mamma  had  one  marked  out  for  all  of  us,  behind 
the  terrace,  six  times  larger. 

Fran.  And  who  owns  it  ?  Doubtless  your  two 
favourites  ! 

Pris.  No,  no  ;  it  belongs  to  all  of  us,  we  have 
each  a  portion. 

Anne.  I,  as  well  as  the  rest. 

Fran.  And  is  there  one  for  me  ? 

Pris.  Undoubtedly  :  and  you  are  luckier  by  a 
deal  than  we.  You  have  not  taken  any  labour  in 
the  cultivation  of  your  part,  which,  notwithstanding, 
you  will  find  quite  full  of  flowers. 

Anne.  Red,  yellow,  blue  and  white  in  plenty  as 
you  will  see. 

Fran.    Who  set  them  for  me  ? 

Anne.  Why,  your  brothers.  They  have  been  a 
month  employing  all  their  play  hours  upon  the 
work.    They  have  selected  all  the  flowers  that  their 


190  SCHOOL    FOR   STEPMOTHERS. 

beds  supplied,  and  put  them  into  yours,  that  at  the 
time  of  your  return,  you  might  be  more  surprised. 

Fran.  And  have  they  done  all  this  for  me  1  Dan- 
iel told  me  that  they  had  taken  all  my  flowers  away, 
but  did  not  tell  me  why. 

Pris.  If  you  give  ear  to  Daniel,  you  will  be  worse 
off  for  it,  I  can  tell  you.  Why  he  wished  to  make 
us  quarrel  with  our  brothers  likewise.  How  un- 
grateful !  Their  mamma  consents  to  have  him  for 
no  other  reason  than  because  our  mother  begged  papa 
upon  her  death-bed,  not  to  turn  him  off;  and  all 
his  study  is  to  make  h^r  children  as  unhappy  as  he 
can. 

Anne.  And  all  because  mamma  will  have  him 
work,  instead  of  spending  half  the  day  with  idle  fel- 
lows at  the  ale-house. 

Fran.  Is  it  so  ?  Then  I  begin  to  see  that  he 
wanted  to  deceive  me,  when  he  promised  to  be  my 
friend. 

Pris.  However,  we  must  not  tell  any  thing  about 
it  to  papa  ;  he  would  dismiss  him  :  we  must  there- 
fore carefully  keep  silence,  and  not  ruiu  Daniel. 

Fran.  O  !  no,  no,  indeed  ;  since  poor  mamma 
had  such  a  value  for  him. 

Pris.  You  will  soon  see  whether  he  told  you 
truth. 

Anne.  But  come  now,  and  pay  a  visit  to  your 
garden,  brother. 

Fran.  Yes,  with  all  my  heart :  I  long  to  see  it. 
(Anne  and  Priscilla  take  him  by  the  hand,  and  go 
out  on  one  side,  without  perceiving  Charles,  who 
comes  in  with  Pereival  on  the  other  side.) 


SCHOOL    FOR    STEPMOTHERS.  191 

SCENE    VI. 

Charles,  Percival. 

( They   enter  icith  two  plates  of  cake  and  fruity 

which  they  put  down  vpon  the  table  in  the  sum- 
mer-house.) 

Charles.     Where  is  he  ? 

Per.  [looking  every  way)  Look,  there  he  is — 
There,  brother,  with  his  sisters,  going  to  our  garden. 

Charles.  I  am  glad  of  that ;  for  only  think  what 
pleasure  he  will  have,  when  he  discerns  how  busy 
we  have  been  to  ornament  his  portion  of  it! 

Per.  Do  you  think  so  1  For  my  part,  1  would 
lay  any  wager  that  he  will  find  fault  with  every 
thing  about  him,  he  is  so  queer  !  The  flowers,  he 
will  say,  are  badly  chosen,  or  the  box  not  planted 
as  it  should  be,  or  the  ground  too  moist  or  too  dry, 
and  twenty  other  things. 

Charles.  Yes  ;  but  do  you  know  that  I  am  be- 
ginning to  consider  you  as  touchy  as  you  think  him  1 
I  never  saw  you  so  befure. 

Per.  It  is  he  that  caused  it.  Have  his  sisters 
ever  had  occasion  to  complain  of  my  behaviour  ? 
and  I  only  wish  to  live  upon  good  terms  with  him. 
You  know  with  what  impatience  I  expected  his  ar- 
rival here,  and  how  I  ran  with  open  arms  to  meet 
him. 

Charles.  True  indeed  ;  but,  as  I  said  before, 
it  is  very  likely  something  grieves  him.  He  is 
afraid,  perhaps,  that  his  father  will  no  longer  love 
him,  or  our  mother  show  him  less  affection  than  he 
fancies  she  does  us.     If  so,  then  surely  it  is  our  du- 


192  SCHOOL    FOR    STEPMOTHERS. 

ty  to  make  much  of  him  in  his  uneasiness,  and  win 
him  to  be  friends  with  us,  by  every  gentle  method 
in  our  power. 

Per.  You  are  in  the  right ;  I  did  not  think  of 
that. 

Charles.  If  he  is  as  good  as  every  body  says, 
think,  brother,  how  a  little  kindness  on  our  part 
will,  in  th\?  end,  affect  him  ;  how  his  father  will  be 
fonder  of  us  for  it  ;  and  what  pleasure  we  shall  give 
mamma  ! 

Per.  I  was  in  the  wrong,  I  own,  let  him  but  come, 
and  I  will  be  so  attentive  to  him,  he  must  unavoid- 
ably forget  the  past. 

Charles.  What  hinders  us  from  running  to  him 
where  he  is  1  The  flowers  that  we  planted  for  him, 
will  make  peace  between  us. 

Per.  That  is  well  said  ;  we  will  go  immediately. 
But  here  he  comes  himself. 

Charles.  And  see  how  pleased  he  seems  ! 

SCENE    VII. 
Charles,  Per  rival,  Francis,  Priscilla,  Anne. 

Fran,  [running  to  embrace  his  brothers)  My 
dear  good  friends,  my  brothers,  you  must  certainly 
be  very  much  displeased  with  my  behaviour. 

Charles.     We  !  why  so  1 

Per.     It  is  over,  my  dear  Frank,  and  I  love  you. 

Fran.  What  a  pretty  garden  you  have  made  me  ! 
You  have  given  me  all  your  finest  flowers,  without 
my  having  done  any  thing  to  give  you  pleasure. 

Charles.  It  is  enough  for  us,  if  you  are  pleased 
with  our  endeavours. 


SCHOOL    FOR    STEPMOTHERS.  193 

Fran.  If  I  am  !  Forgive  me  pray,  dear  brothers. 
I  insulted  you  :  I  turned  away,  when  you  came 
running  to  embrace  me.  I  will  never  do  so  for  the 
future.  We  will  always  be  good  frinds;  and  every 
thing  that  I  have  shall  be  yours  as  well  as  mine. 

Charles.  Yes,  yes,  and  every  thing  shall  be  in 
common  to  us;  not  our  pleasures  only,  but  our  sor- 
rows also. 

Per.  Let  us  then  embrace  each  other,  and  begin 
this  friendship.     (They  embrace.) 

Charles.  This  is  as  it  should  be ;  and  now, 
Frank,  we  must  go  and  have  a  little  banquet  that 
has  been  prepared  for  us  by  mamma  :  we  have 
brought  it,  and  put  it  in  the  summer-house,  as  you 
may  see.  Let  us  enter.  Enter  too,  sisters,  and 
sit  down  with  us. 

Per.  It  is  your  privilege,  dear  brother,  now  to  do 
the  honours  of  the  feast.  Mamma  will  have  it  so  ; 
as  you,  she  says,  by  your  arrival,  are  the  founder 
of  it. 

Fran.  O,  I  am  sure  I  never  could  have  eaten  any 
where  with  so  much  appetite,  as  at  this  feast  of 
friendship.  (He  presents  them  with  the  cake  and 
fruity  and  they  begin  to  eat.) 

Per.  Well  said,  and  is  not  this  much  better  than 
to  quarrel  with  each  other  ? 

Anne.  I  believe  so,  truly  !  For  what  quarrel  can 
be  worth  these  pears  ? 

Charles.  How  glad  mamma  will  be  to  find  us 
such  friends  with  one  another  ! 

Pris.  Sbe  deserves  that  we  should  afford  her  all 
17  vol.  2. 


194  SCHOOL    FOR    STEPMOTHERS. 

the  joy  possible.  When  once  you  come  to  know 
her — But  I  remember  you  have  seen  her. 

Fran.  Yes,  yes,  Priscilla  ;  she  received  me  with 
the  greatest  kindness,  and  has  so  agreeable  a  coun- 
tenance that  she  cannot  be  ill-tempered.  I  per- 
ceived even  by  her  tone  of  voice  that  I  should  be 
easily  induced  to  love  her. 

Pm.      And  how  good  she  is  to  us  ! 

Anne.  We  need  but  please  ourselves,  to  give  her 
pleasure. 

Pris.  We  were  greatly  to  he  pitied  at  the  death 
of  our  mamma.  Papa,  who  is  employed  all  day  in 
business,  could  not  look  to  us.  There  was  forever 
something  wrong  in  our  clothes,  and  our  education 
was  much  more  neglected. 

Anne.  We  should  very  probably  have  fallen  into 
a  habit  of  indolence. 

Pris.  But  since  our  new  mamma  has  come,  we 
are  both  set  to  rights.  She  gives  us  every  entertain- 
ment suited  to  our  age,  and  is  a  party  with  us  in 
our  little  pleasures.  One  would  think  her  much 
more  interested  in  the  preservation  of  our  health, 
than  of  her  own.  I  have  not  yet  had  time  suffi- 
cient to  remark  that  I  stand  in  need  of  any  thing  ; 
she  makes  beforehand  such  provision  for  our  wants  ! 

Anne.  But  lately  I  was  ill  ;  oh,  very  ill  indeed  ; 
and  it  was  she  that  waited  on  me.  She  was  al- 
ways by  my  bed,  and  doing  every  thing  in  her 
power  to  comfort  me.  She  made  up  all  manner  of 
nice  things  ;  and  I  believe,  I  should  have  died,  but 
for  her  great  attention  to  me. 

Fran.  O  my  dear,  dear  sisters  !  is  it  possible  ? 


SCHOOL    FOR    STEPMOTHERS.  195 

Pris.  You  know  too,  brother,  that  before  you 
left  us,  we  had  not  been  any  ways  accustomed  to 
employ  our  needle.  Well;  mamma  was  kind 
enough  to  teach  us.  So  that  now  we  know — not 
only  plain,  but  every  sort  of  fine  work. 

Charles,  (tn  Francis)  See  here,  the  neck  and 
wristbands  of  this  shirt.  Mamma  extols  the  work 
very  much.  Well,  Priscilla  did  it  all  herself,  and 
presented  it  to  me. 

Pris.  Which  you  deserved  beforehand  ;  for'who 
made  me  such  a  garden,  or  presented  me  with  such 
fine  nosegays  ?  Brother  Francis,  you  must  know, 
mamma  will  not  have  us  oblige  our  brothers,  unless 
they  likewise  oblige  us,  and  they  do  more  to  please 
us,  than  we  could  have  thought  to  ask. 

Anne.  Yes,  indeed  ;  and  as  a  proof,  I  will  show 
you  the  cork  boat  of  Percival's  making  with  his  pen- 
knife. You  shall  see  its  nice  silk  rigging,  satin  sails, 
and  riband  streamers.  It  swims  charmingly,  in 
the  fish-pond. 

Per.  Since  you  made  me  such  a  handsome  pair 
of  braces — 

Anne.  Braces  !  I  can  make  much  handsomer 
things  than  braces  now.  Ah,  Frank,  were  you  but 
to  see  a  certain  green  and  lilach  striped  silk  purse  ! 
The  green  at  least  is  all  of  my  own  fancying  ;  ask 
Priscilla.  O,  I  am  sure  you  will  be  delighted 
when  you  have  it. 

Fran.  How!  and  have  you  made  me,  then,  a 
purse  1  (Priscilla  makes  a  sign  that  Anne  should 
hold  her  peace.) 

Anne,  (embarrassed)      O,   Frank  ;    I    forgot  : 


196  SCHOOL    FOR    STEPMOTHERS. 

— (in  a  whisper)  yes,  it  is  !  but  you  must  know, 
mamma  enjoined  me  not  to  tell  you.  And  besides, 
she  means  to  surprise  you  herself  with  nothing  less 
than  a  nice  worked  waistcoat,  such  as  my  brothers 
have  on — O,  you  will  soon  see  ! 

Pris.  This  little  giddy  creature  can  keep  no  se- 
cret. 

Anne.  No,  because  there  was  such  pleasure  in 
revealing  it.  We  have  been  always  thinking  of  you, 
brother. 

Fran.  O,  I  thank  you  :  but  pray  tell  me,  are  you 
happy  1 

Pris.  Are  we  happy  1  What  is  wanting  in  our 
situation  1  Our  mamma  is  really  so  good  !  I  do 
not  know  how  it  is,  but  she  has  found  the  secret  of 
converting  every  thing  into  a  sort  of  pleasure.  I 
have  no  amusement  half  so  great  as  chatting  with 
her.    Even  while  she  is  joking,  she  instructs  us. 

Anne.  You  should  see  us,  when  we  are  reading 
certain  little  tales,  which  a  friend  of  ours  composes 
for  us.  He  knows  what  every  little  boy  and  girl 
does  in  the  world  ;  and  it  would  be  comical  if  he 
were  to  put  us  in  his  book. 

Pris.  I  wish  he  would  put  us  in  it,  on  account  of 
our  mamma  ;  that  all  the  world  might  know  the 
goodness  of  her  heart,  and  how  we  love  her. 

Charles.  Yes,  and  I  too,  for  the  sake  of  our  pa- 
pa, who  treats  us  just  as  if  we  were  his  real  chil- 
dren. 


SCHOOL    FOR    STEPMOTHERS.  197 

SCENE  VIII. 

Mr.  Floyd,     Francis,    Priscilla,   Anne,    Charles, 

PercivaL 

Mr.  Floyd,  (who  had  stood  by  the  side  of  the 
summer-house,  during  the  whole  preceding  scene, 
shows  himself  suddenly  amongst  them,  crying)  Yes, 
and  so  you  are  within  my  heart.  I  make  it  all  my 
happiness  to  think  that  I  am  your  father.  But 
where  is  Frank  ? 

Fran,  (embracing  Mr.  Floyd)  Here,  papa.  O 
how  rejoiced  I  am  to  see  you,  dear  papa. 

Mr.F.  Kiss  me  once  more,  my  dear  child. — And 
now  let  me  inquire,  if  you  are  pleased  with  your 
new  brothers  ? 

Fran.  O,  I  never  could  have  chosen  better.  I 
will  love  them,  and  do  every  thing  in  my  power 
that  they  may  love  me  likewise. 

Charles.  There  will  be  no  difficulty  in  that  mat- 
ter, since  we  are  determined  to  do  just  the  same. 

Per.  We  shall  but  need  to  recollect  the  pleas- 
ure that  we  have  had  this  day. 

Pris.  That  you  may  keep  your  promise,  I  will 
be  sure  to  put  you  frequently  in  mind  of  it. 

Anne.  O,  sister,  as  to  that,  I  am  sure  I  shall  re- 
member it  without  a  monitor. 

Mr.F.  I  verily  believe  you  will  do  so,  from  what 
I  have  heard  you  say  ;  for  you  must  know,  dear 
children,  1  was  planted  here  hard  by  in  secret,  dur- 
ing all  your  conversation  ;  and  I  am  sure,  I  never 
shall  forget  it :  nor  I  only,  but  another ;  for  another 
17* 


198  SCHOOL   FOR   STEPMOTHERS. 

has  heard  every  thing  as  well  as  I.  Come  then, 
dear  wife,  approach,  and  enjoy  a  pleasure  so  adapt- 
ed to  your  goodness. 

SCENE  IX. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Floyd,  Francis,  Priscitta,  Anne, 
Charles,  Percival. 

Mr.  F.  Here  she  is,  my  little  ones  :  the  partner 
that  I  have  chosen  to  promote  your  happiness  ;  and 
not  yours  only,  but  my  own.  The  fortune  which 
it  might  have  been  in  my  power  to  leave  to  yu  , 
would  be  nothing,  in  comparison  of  that  more  valu- 
able gift,  a  good  and  proper  education.  We  have 
therefore  made  these  second  nuptials  to  procure  you 
every  possible  advantage.  Three  among  you  very 
much  wanted  a  mother,  who  might  take  upon  her 
the  care  of  your  childhood  :  and  the  other  two,  a 
father  to  advance  them  in  the  world.  Your  interests 
were  the  same,  in  these  second  nuptials  ;  and  it  is 
for  the  benefit  of  all  of  us  that  they  have  been 
framed.  Do  you  then  promise  me,  dear  wife,  as  I 
on  my  side  do,  that  you  will  never  think  of  treating 
either  of  these  children  with  the  least  degree  of  par- 
tiality, except  indeed  what  his  superior  good  behav- 
iour may  appear  to  merit. 

Mrs.F.  My  reply  to  you,  dear  husband,  are  these 
tears ;  I  cannot  possibly  repress  them  ;  and  to  you, 
my  children,  these  embraces  (she  holds  out  her 
arms,  and  all  the  children  strive  with  each  other 
to  come  nearest  to  her.) 

Mr.  F.  And  do  you,  dear  little  ones,  on  your 
part,  promise  to  keep  up  a  constant  union  with  each 


THE    SUDDEN    FORTUNE.  199 

other,  to  avoid  all  jealousy  and  quarrels,  and  like 
children  of  one  parent,  love  each  other.  (They 
take  each  other  by  the  hand,  and  kneeling,  answer) 

Yes,  papa  ;  we  do,  we  do. 

Mr.  F.  (raising  them.)  Continue  to  live  in  such' 
a  state  of  friendship.  You  will  find  its  charms  con- 
stantly increase,  and  the  tie  between  you  grow 
closer  every  day.  You  will  be  as  happy  from  the 
services  that  you  do  each  other,  as  from  those  little 
sacrifices  that  may  frequently  be  needful  for  the 
sake  of  peace  among  you.  Every  one  enjoying  his 
own  happiness,  will  not  the  less  enjoy  his  broth- 
er's; which,  in  fact,  he  may  attribute  to  himself. 
There  will  not  be  an  individual  around  you, 
but  will  interest  himself  in  your  prosperity,  if  his 
friendship  be  worth  the  acquisition;  and  your  fu- 
ture children  will  reward  you  by  their  tenderness, 
for  having  so  well  merited  the  affection  of  your 
parents. 


THE  MAN  WHO  ROSE  TO  SUD- 
DEN FORTUNE. 

One  fine  evening  in  June,  Mr.  Russel  went  with 
his  son  to  take  a  walk  in  one  of  the  most  agreeable 
environs  of  the  city.  The  weather  was  mild,  the 
sky  clear,  the  purling  streams  and  waving  trees 
lulled  them  to  an  agreeable  thoughtfulness.     What  a 


200  THE    SUDDEN    FORTUNE. 

lovely  evening  !  said  Eugene,  enchanted  with  the 
beauties  of  nature  that  surrounded  him.  He  pressed 
his  father's  hand,  and  said  to  him,  if  you  knew, 
papa,  what  thoughts  rise  in  my  heart  !  He  was 
silent  for  a  moment ;  then  lifting  his  moistened  eyes 
to  heaven,  I  thank  my  God,,  said  he,  for  the  happy 
moments  that  he  gives  me  to  enjoy.  O  that  every 
one  could  feel  the  beauties  of  the  evening  as  1  do  ! 
That  all  mankind  overflowed  with  joy,  as  I  do  at 
this  moment  !  I  could  wish  to  be  a  king  over  a  large 
country,  that  I  might  make  all  my  subjects  happy. 
Mr.  Russel  embraced  his  son.  My  dear  Eugene, 
said  he,  the  benevolent  wish  that  you  have  just  ex- 
pressed, comes  from  a  heart  as  generous  as  humane. 
But  would  not  your  thoughts  change  with  your 
fortune  ?  Would  you  still  hold,  in  an  exalted  station? 
these  sentiments,  that  animate  you  now  in  the 
middling  condition  to  which  heaven  has  appointed 
you  ? 

Eugene.  Why  do  you  ask  that  question,  papa  1 
cannot  one  become  rich  without  becoming  cruel  or 
wicked  1 

Mr.  R.  It  does  not  always  happen  so,  my  dear. 
There  are  some  fortunate  persons  who  remember 
their  past  distresses,  and  in  whom  this  reflection 
produces  sentiments  of  charity  towards  the  un- 
fortunate. But  to  the  disgrace  of  the  human  heart, 
a  change  of  fortune  frequently  alters  affections  the 
most  tender  and  sympathetic.  While  we  are  un- 
fortunate ourselves,  we  think  that  heaven  requires 
of  all  men  as  a  duty  to  relieve  our  sufferings.  If 
the  hand  of  God  remove  misfortune  from   us,  we 


THE    SUDDEN    FORTUNE.  201 

think  all  his  intents  in  the  preservation  of  the  uni- 
verse fulfilled  ;  and  we  no  longer  think  of  those 
wretches  that  remain  in  the  gulf  from  which  we 
have  been  rescued.  We  have  an  instance  of  this  in 
the  man  who  comes  sometimes  to  ask  relief  of  me, 
which  I  give  him  with  a  reluctance  that  I  cannot 
conquer,  though  I  reproach  myself  for  it. 

Eugene.  True,  papa  ;  I  observed  that  you  put 
your  alms  coldly  into  his  hand,  without  ever  giving 
him  those  words  of  comfort  that  you  do  to  other 
poor  people. 

Mr.  R.  I  will  show  you,  my  dear,  whether  he 
deserves  them.  Mr.  Lowe  was  a  linen-draper  in 
the  Minories.  Though  the  profits  of  his  business 
were  but  moderate,  a  poor  person  never  appeared 
at  his  door  in  vain.  This  was  all  the  pleasure  with 
which  he  indulged  himself  ;  and  he  thought  him- 
self happy  to  enjoy  it,  though  he  could  not  com- 
mand even  this  to  the  full  extent  of  his  wishes. 
Business  called  him  one  day  upon  'Change.  He 
saw  in  one  part  of  it  a  number  of  principal  merchants 
together,  who  were  talking  of  vast  cargoes,  and  im- 
mense profits  to  be  expected  from  traffic.  Ah,  said 
he  to  himself,  how  happy  these  people  are  !  If  I 
were  as  rich,  heaven  knows,  I  should  not  be  so  for 
myself  alone,  and  that  the  poor  should  partake  of 
ray  abundance.  He  went  home  full  of  ambitious 
thoughts,  but  how  can  his  narrow  business  enable 
him  to  fulfil  his  vast  projects  ?  With  tolerable 
economy,  it  was  no  more  than  sufficient  to  afford 
him  a  decent  subsistence  the  year  round.     '  I  shall 


202  THE    SUDDEN    FORTUNE. 

always  be  at  a  stand  !'  cried  he,  l  and  never 
rise  above  this  middling  condition  in  which  I  linger 
at  present.'  A  handbill,  inviting  adventurers  to 
purchase  in  the  lottery,  was  at  this  moment  put 
into  his  hand.  He  seized  the  idea  with  eagerness, 
as  if  inspired  by  fortune  ;  and  without  minding  the 
inconvenience  which  his  covetousness  might  reduce 
him,  he  went  to  the  lottery-office  and  laid  out  four 
guineas,the  only  money  he  could  spare  in  the  world. 
With  what  impatience  he  waited  for  the  drawing ! 
He  atone  time  repented  having  so  foolishly  hazard- 
ed a  stake,  the  loss  of  which  would  disturb  him. 
At  another,  he  fancied  that  he  saw  riches  falling 
down  upon  him  in  showers.  At  last  the  drawing 
began. 

Eugene.     Well,  papa,  did  he  get  a  prize  1 

Mr.  R.     Five  thousand  pounds. 

Eugene.     Aha  !  he  jumped  for  joy. 

Mr.  R.  He  went  immediately  and  received  his 
money,  and  spent  some  days  in  thinking  of  nothing 
else.  When  he  had  thought  enough,he  said  to  himself 
— I  can  put  this  sum  to  better  use,than  barely  poring 
over  it.  He  therefore  enlarged  his  stock,  extended 
his  dealings,  and,  by  his  knowledge  of  trade,  soon 
doubled  his  capital.  In  less  than  ten  years  he 
became  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  city.  It  must 
be  said  in  his  praise,  that  he  had  till  then  been 
faithful  to  his  vow,  in  making  the  poor  partake 
of  his  abundance.  At  the  sight  of  an  unfortunate 
person,  he  remembered  his  own  former  condition 
without  being  ashamed  of  it.  And  this  recollection 
never  failed  of  profiting  the  person  who  occasioned 


THE    SUDDEN    FORTUNE.  203 

it.  Led  on  by  degrees  to  frequent  fine  company, 
he  contracted  a  taste  for  luxury  and  dissipation. 
He  purchased  a  magnificent  country-house,  and  fine 
gardens,  and  his  life  became  a  round  of  pleasure  and 
amusement.  The  most  extravagant  whims  were 
gratified  without  scruple,  but  he  soon  perceived 
that  they  had  made  a  considerable  breach  in  his  for- 
tune. Trade,  which  he  had  relinquished  in  order 
to  be  quite  at  leisure  to  enjoy  himself,  no  longer 
enabled  him  to  repair  it  ;  and  a  habit  of  indulgence 
and  mean  vanity  would  not  suffer  him  to  lessen  his 
expences.  I  shall  always  have  enough  for  myself, 
thought  he  ;  let  others  provide  for  themselves.  His 
heart,  hardened  in  this  resolution,  was  thenceforth 
shut  to  the  unfortunate.  He  heard  the  cries  of  mis- 
ery, as  one  hears  the  tempest  rumble  at  a  distance, 
when  sheltered  from  its  fury.  Friends, whom  he  had 
till  then  supported,  came  to  solicit  him  for  relief: 
But  he  refused  them  harshly.  Have  I  made  a 
fortune,  said  he, only  to  squander  it  upon  you?  Do 
as  I  do,  he  added  ;  depend  upon  yourselves.  His 
mother,  whom  he  had  deprived  of  half  the  pension 
that  he  allowed  her,  came  to  beg  for  a  retired 
shelter  in  his  house,  there  to  spend  her  few  remain- 
ing days  ;  but  he  had  the  baibarity  to  refuse  her, 
and  with  tearless  eyes  beheld  her  die  in  misery. 
This  crime  however  did  not  long  remain  unpunished. 
His  debaucheries  very  soon  exhausted  all  his  wealth, 
and  deprived  him  of  the  strength  necessary  to  sup- 
port himself  by  work.  In  short  he  was  reduced  to 
the  state  of  misery  in  which  you  see  him,  and  now 


204  THE    SUDDEN    FORTUNE. 

begs  his  bread  from  door  to  door,  an  object  of  con- 
tempt and  indignation  to  all  honest  people. 

Eugene.  Ah,  papa,  since  fortune  can  make  men 
so  wicked,  I  wish  to  remain  as  I  am. 

Mr.  R.  My  dear  Eugene,  I  wish  so  too  for 
the  sake  of  your  happiness ;  but  if  heaven  destines 
you  a  more  exalted  station,  may  you  never  forfeit 
the  nobleness  and  generosity  of  your  soul.  Think 
often  of  the  story  I  have  just  told  you.  Learn  from 
this  example,  that  we  can  never  taste  true  happiness, 
without  feeling  for  the  misfortunes  of  others  ;  that 
it  is  the  powerful  man's  duty  to  comfort  the  sorrows 
of  the  weak  ;  and  that  he  reaps  more  true  happiness 
from  the  performance  of  this  duty,  than  from  all  his 
pomp  and  luxury. 

The  sun  was  now  about  to  set,  and  his  parting 
beams  threw  a  lively  glow  upon  the  clouds,  which 
formed  a  purple  curtain  round  his  bed.  The  air, 
freshened  at  the  approach  of  evening,  breathed  an 
agreeable  calm.  The  birds,  in  repeating  their 
farewell  songs,  exerted  all  their  powers  of  melody. 
The  leaves  of  the  grove  mingled  a  gentle  murmur 
with  their  concert,  and  every  tning  seemed  to  inspire 
sentiments  of  joy  and  happiness  ;  but  Eugene  and 
his  father  instead  of  the  transports  they  at  first  felt, 
returned  to  their  home  lost  in  melancholy  reflec 
tions. 


205 


THE    YOUNG    SPARROWS. 

Little  Robert  one  day  perceived  a  sparrow's 
nest  under  the  eaves  of  the  house,  and  running  im- 
mediately for  his  sisters  to  inform  them  of  his  dis- 
covery, they  all  contrived  how  to  make  themselves 
masters  of  the  little  covey.  It  was  agreed  to  wait 
until  the  young  ones  should  be  fledged  ;  that  Rob- 
ert should  then  raise  a  ladder  against  the  wall,  and 
his  sisters  should  hold  it  fast  below,  while  he  climb- 
ed up  for  the  nest.  When  they  thought  the  little 
birds  sufficiently  feathered,  they  made  ready  to  put 
their  design  in  execution.  It  succeeded  perfectly, 
and  they  found  three  young  ones  in  the  nest.  The 
old  birds  sent  forth  piteous  cries  on  seeing  the 
little  ones  taken  from  them  which  they  had  nour- 
ished with  so  much  care  ;  but  Robert  and  his  sis- 
ters were  so  overjoyed  that  they  paid  not  the  least 
attention  to  their  complaints. 

They  were  at  first  a  little  puzzled  what  to  do 
with  their  prisoners.  Augusta,  the  youngest,  being 
of  a  mild  and  compassionate  disposition,  was  for 
having  them  put  in  a  cage ;  she  promised  to  take 
the  charge  of  them  upon  herself,  and  to  feed  them 
regularly  every  day ;  she  described  in  a  lively  man- 
ner to  her  brother  and  sister,  the  pleasure  they 
should  have  in  seeing  arid  hearing  those  young  birds, 
when  grown  big. 

This  was  opposed  by  Robert,  who  maintained 
18  vol.  2. 


206  THE    YOUNG   SPARROWS. 

that  it  was  better  to  pluck  them  just  as  they  were, 
and  that  it  would  be  much  more  funny  to  look  at 
them  jumping  about  in  the  room  without  feathers, 
than  to  see  them  dismally  shut  up  in  a  cage.  Char- 
lotte, the  eldest,  declared  herself  of  the  same  opin- 
ion as  Augusta,  but  Robert  persisted  in  his  own. 

At  last  the  two  little  girls,  seeing  that  their  brother 
would  not  give  up  the  point,  and  that  he  had  the 
nest  in  his  possession,  agreed  to  whatever  he  desired. 
But  he  waited  not  for  their  consent  to  begin  the  ex- 
ecution. The  first  was  already  plucked. — There  is 
one  stript,  said  he,  setting  it  on  the  ground.  In  a  mo- 
ment after,  all  the  little  fiimily  were  deprived  of  their 
tender  feathers.  The  poor  things  cried,  peep! 
peep/  and  complained  very  piteously  ;  they  shud- 
dered with  the  cold,  and  shook  their  bare  little 
wings.  But  Robert,  instead  of  pitying  their  suffer- 
ings, did  not  end  his  persecutions  here  :  he  pushed 
them  with  his  toe  to  make  them  go  on,  and  when- 
ever they  tumbled  over,  he  burst  into  a  laugh  ;  and 
at  last  his  sisters  joined  in  the  laugh  with  him. 

While  they  were  practising  this  cruel  amusement, 
they  saw  their  tutor  coming  towards  them. — Mum  ! 
Each  pocketed  a  bird,  and  was  stealing  off.  "  Well," 
cried  their  tutor,  "  where  are  you  going  ?  Come 
hither  !"  This  order  obliged  them  to  stop.  They 
advanced  slowly  with  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 

Tutor.    Why  do  you  run  away  at  my  coming? 

Rob.   We  were  only  playing. 

Tutor.  You  know  I  do  not  debar  you  from 
amusement;  and  indeed  I  am  never  so  happy  as 
when  I  see  you  all  merry. 


THE    YOUNG    SPARROWS.  207 

Rob.  We  were  afraid  you  were  coming  to  scold 
at  us. 

Tutor.  Do  I  ever  scold  at  you  for  taking  inno- 
cent diversion?  I  see  you  have  done  something 
amiss.  Why  have  you  each  a  hand  in  your  pock- 
et ?  1  must  know  the  reason.  Show  me  your  hands, 
and  what  you  have  in  them,  (they  show  their  hands, 
with  a  bird  picked.) 

Tutor  (with  an  emotion  of  pity  and  indignation) 
And  who  could  give  you  the  idea  of  treating  these 
poor  little  creatures  thus  1 

Rob.  Why,  it  is  so  droll  to  see  sparrows  jump 
without  feathers. 

Tutor.  You  think  it  very  droll,  then,  to  see  in- 
nocent creatures  suffer,  and  to  hear  their  painful 
cries  ? 

Rob.  No,  sir ;  I  didn't  think  it  made  them  suffer. 

Tutor.  Did  not  you  ?  Come  hither,  I  will  con- 
vince you  it  did.  (he  plucks  a  few  hairs  out  of 
Robert's  head.) 

Rob.    O,  O! 

Tutor.  Does  that  hurt  you  ? 

Rob.  Do  you  think  it  does  not,  to  pluck  out  my 
hairs  ? 

Tutor.  Pshaw!  there  are  only  a  dozen. 

Rob.  But  that  is  too  much. 

Tutor.  What  would  it  be  then  were  I  to  pluck 
out  all  your  hair?  Have  you  a  notion  of  the  pain 
that  you  would  feel  ?  And  yet  you  have  put  these 
birds  to  the  very  same  torture,  though  they  never 
did  you  any  harm.     And  you,  youug  ladies  ;  you, 


208  THE    YOUNG    SPARROWS. 

that  should  be  more  tender-hearted  !  did  you  suffer 
this? 

The  two  little  misses  were  standing  by,  silent ; 
but  hearing  these  last  words,  and  feeling  the  keen- 
ness of  the  rebuke,  sat  down  with  their  eyes  swim- 
ming in  tears.  The  tutor  remarked  their  sorrow, 
and  said  no  more  to  them. 

Robert  did  not  cry,  but  endeavoured  to  justify 
himself:  1  could  not  think  that  I  did  them  any 
harm.  They  sung  all  the  while,  and  they  clapped 
their  wings  as  if  they  were  pleased. 

Tutor.  Do  you  call  their  cries  singing  1  But  why 
should  they  sing  ? 

Rob.    I  suppose  to  call  their   father  and  mother. 

Tutor.  No  doubt.  And  when  their  cries  should 
have  brought  them,  what  did  the  young  ones  mean 
to  tell  them,  by  clapping  their  wings  ? 

Rob.  I  cannot  say  exactly  ;  perhaps  to  ask  their 
help. 

Tutor.  Just  so.  Therefore,  if  those  birds  could 
have  expressed  themselves  in  our  speech,  you  would 
have  heard  them  cry,  "  Ah,  father  and  mother,  save 
us  I  we  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  cruel  children, 
who  have  plucked  all  our  feathers.  We  are  cold, 
and  in  pain.  Come,  warm  us,  and  cure  us,  or  we 
shall  die." 

The  little  girls  could  hold  out  no  longer ;  they 
sobbed,  and  hid  their  faces  in  their  handkerchiefs. 
"  It  was  you,  Robert,  that  led  us  to  this  cruelty  : 
We  hated  the  thought  of  it  ourselves."  Robert  was 
then  sensible  of  his  fault.  He  had  already  been 
punished  by  the   plucking   of  his    hair;    he   was 


THE    BLACKSMITH.  209 

now  much  more  so  by  the  reproaches  of  his  heart. 
The  tutor  thought  there  was  no  occasion  to  add  to 
bis  double  punishment.  It  was  not,  indeed,  from 
an  instinct  of  cruelty,  but  purely  from  want  of 
thought,  that  Robert  had  done  this  ill-natured  ac- 
tion, and  the  pity  which  he  felt  from  that  moment 
for  all  creatures  weaker  than  himself,  opened  his 
heart  to  the  sentiments  of  kindness  and  humanity 
that  have  animated  him  all  the  rest  of  his  life. 


THE    BLACKSMITH  : 

OR,    TWO    MADE    HAPPY. 

A  gentleman  of  fortune  passing  very  late  one 
night  by  a  blacksmith's  habitation,  was  surprised 
to  see  him  busy  at  his  forge,  when  every  other 
person  in  the  neighborhood  was  gone  to  rest.  He 
had  a  curiosity  to  know  what  reason  he  could  have 
for  working  thus  at  midnight,  as  if  twelve  hours 
labour  in  the  day  would  not  suffice  to  provide  sub- 
sistence for  his  family. 

It  is  not  for  myself  I  work,  replied  the  black- 
smith, but  a  neighbour  of  mine,  who  has  un- 
fortunately been  burnt  out.  I  rise  two  hours  be- 
fore the  usual  time  of  labour  every  morning,  and 
continue  working  two  hours  after,  every  night,  and 
sometimes  longer,  as  is  now  the  case,  and  this  1 
do,  that  I  may  help  him  in  his  destitute  condition. 
If  I  had  any  thing  myself,  I  would  divide  it  with 
18* 


210  THE    BLACKSMITH. 

him  ;  but  my  all  is  nothing  but  this  shop  and 
some  small  stock  of  metal,  which  I  cannot  part 
with,  because  it  is  what  I  subsist  on.  By  thus 
working  every  day  four  hours  at  least,  it  comes  to 
two  days  weekly,  and  the  earnings  of  these  I  can 
yield  to  him.  Thank  heaven,  at  this  time  of  the 
year,  there's  work  enough !  and  while  I  have 
strength,  it  is  my  duty  to  assist  the  unhappy. 

This  is  very  generous,  my  good  friend,  said  the 
gentleman,  as  I  suppose  your  neighbour  will  never 
be  able  to  repay  your  kindness. 

Truly,  sir,  I  fear  he  will  not :  but  on  his  ac- 
count alone,  not  mine.  However,  I  am  sure  he 
would  rejoice  to  do  as  much  for  me,  were  I  in  his 
condition. 

At  these  words,  the  gentleman,  not  willing  to  in- 
trude upon  the  blacksmith  longer,  wished  him  a 
good  night,  and  went  away. 

On  the  morrow,  having  put  into  his  purse  a 
twenty-pound  note,  which  he  could  well  afford  to 
part  with  from  his  savings,  he  went  out,  with  in- 
tent to  leave  it  with  the  blacksmith,  whose  benefi- 
cence he  was  resolved  to  recompense,  and  to  put 
it  in  his  power  to  buy  metai  at  the  cheapest 
market  price,  and  thus  undertake  more  business, 
and  lay  by  a  little  from  his  labour,  to  support  him 
in  his  old  age. 

But  what  was  his  wonder,  when  the  black- 
smith bade  him  take  his  money  back  again  !  I  can- 
not lay  it  out,,  said  he,  because  I  have  not  earned 
it.  I  can  well  afford  to  pay  for  all  the  iron  I  make 
use  of;  and  if  ever  I  should  be  in  want  of  more, 


OLD    MAN    BEGGING.  211 

the  merchant  would  supply  me  with  it,  on  my  note. 
It  would  be  absolute  ingratitude  in  me  to  take  that 
profit  from  him  he  is  used  to  make  upon  his  goods, 
when  he  has  never  hesitated  to  supply  me  with  as 
much  as  I  could  ask  for,  even  when  I  had  no  other 
coat  than  that  upon  my  back :  but  you  may  make 
a  better  use,  sir,  of  this  money,  if  you  lend  it,  free 
of  interest,  to  my  unhappy  neighbour.  He  might 
then  retrieve  his  affairs,  and  I  regain  my  usual 
portion  of  sleep. 

The  gentleman,  with  all  his  rhetoric,  not  being 
able  to  prevail  upon  the  blacksmith  to  accept  his 
offer,  followed  the  advice  he  gave  him  ;  and  was 
highly  gratified  in  thinking  he  had  made  two  wor- 
thy objects  happy,  where  his  generosity  had  wished 
to  serve  one  alone. 


AN    OLD    MAN    BEGGING. 

Mr.  Annesley,  to  a  servant. 

Why  did  you  not  make  this  good  old  man  come 
in? 

Old  M.  Sir,  I  was  asked  ;  but  it  was  my  own 
choice  not  to  go  in. 

Mr.  A.    And  why  1 

Old  M.  I  blush  to  tell.  I  am  doing  a  thing  to 
which  I  am  not  accustomed  :  I  come — to  beg  alms. 

Mr.  A.  You  seem  honest:  why  should  you 
blush  to  be  poor  ?  I  have  some  friends  myself  who 
are  so.     Be  you  of  the  number. 


212  OLD    MAN    BEGGING. 

Old  M.    Excuse  me,  sir :  I  have  not  time. 

Mr.  A.    What  have  you  then  to  do  1 

Old  31.  The  most  important  thing  in  this  world  : 
to  die.  I  may  tell  you,  since  we  are  alone,  I  have 
not  more  than  a  week  to  live. 

Mr.  A.    How  do  you  know  that  1 

Old  M.  How  do  I  know  it  1  I  can  scarce  ex- 
plain that  to  you.  But  I  know  it,  because  I  feel 
it :  and  that  proof  is  sure.  Happily  nobody  is  a 
loser  by  my  death.  My  daughter  and  my  son-in- 
law  have  maintained  me  these  two  years. 

Mr.  A.   They  have  only  done  their  duty. 

Old  M.  I  was  once  just  rich  enough  not  to  fear 
becoming  chargeable  to  any  body.  I  lent  my 
money  to  a  gentleman  who  called  himself  my  friend. 
He  lived  merrily,  until  at  last,  he  reduced  me  to 
poverty.  1  beg  pardon,  sir  !  you  are  a  gentleman 
too  :  but  I  speak  the  truth. 

Mr.  A.  I  have  as  much  pleasure  in  hearing  it, 
as  you  have  in  speaking  it,  even  were  it  against 
myself. 

Old  31.  I  should  have  been  wiser,  had  I  worked 
to  the  last ;  but  I  grew  pale  and  withered,  and 
looked  upon  this  change  as  a  signal  from  Provi- 
dence to  repose  myself.  I  never  disliked  work, 
sir.  When  I  was  young,  that  supported  my 
health :  I  .had  no  other  physician.  But  what 
strengthens  youth,  exhausts  old  age.  I  was  no 
longer  able  to  work.  When  I  had  lost  my  fortune, 
I  was  desirous  to  work  again.  I  desired  it  with  all 
my  heart.  I  felt  for  my  arms,  but  could  not  find 
them.     Excuse   me    for   dropping  a  tear  when   I 


OLD    MAN    BEGGING.  213 

think  of  it.  No  moment  of  my  life  was  more 
heavy  than  when  I  felt  myself  so  weak. 

3Ir.  A.  You  then  had  recourse  to  your  chil- 
dren ? 

Old  M.  No,  sir  :  they  came  to  me  of  them- 
selves. I  had  only  one  daughter,  but  I  found  a 
son  in  her  husband.  They  made  me  welcome  to 
every  thing  they  had,  and  took  care  of  me.  May 
God  take  them  to  his  heavenly  table,  as  they  have 
taken  me  to  their  table  in  this  world. 

Mr.  A.  What,  are  they  become  cooler  to  you 
now  ? 

Old  M.  No,  sir,  but  they  have  become  poor 
themselves.  The  floods  have  swept  away  their 
house,  and  destroyed  their  stock  :  so  they  have 
borrowed  money  to  maintain  me  at  ease  till  my 
death ;  the  only  thing  that  they  ever  did  against 
my  will.  I  would  wish  them  to  have  the  sum  for 
my  burial  beforehand,  that  I  may  not  be  a  charge 
to  them  when  dead.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  I 
come  begging  alms.  I  am  an  old  man,  but  a 
young  beggar. 

Mr.  A.  And  where  do  you  live  1 

Old  M.  I  beg  pardon,  sir  ;  but  must  not  answer 
that,  either  for  myself  or  for  my  children. 

Mr.  A.  Excuse  my  indiscreet  curiosity.  Heaven 
forbid  that  I  should  seek  to  gratify  it  ! 

Old  M.  Sir,  I  believe  you.  In  eight  days,  look 
up  to  heaven  ;  you  will  then,  I  hope,  see  my  dwell- 
ing ;  it  will  not  be  concealed. 

Mr.  A.  (offering  him  silver)  Take  this,  good  old 
man,  and  may  God  keep  you. 


214  OLD    MAN    BEGGING. 

Old  M.  All  that,  sir  1  No,  it  was  not  my  inten- 
tion. I  want  but  a  crown  ;  the  rest  is  of  no  ser- 
vice to  me.     There  is  no  want  in  heaven. 

Mr.  A.  You  will  give  the  remainder  to  your 
children. 

Old  31.  God  forbid  !  My  children  can  work  ; 
they  want  nothing. 

Mr.  A.  Farewell,  my  good  old  man  !  Go  and 
repose  yourself. 

Old  M.  (returning  all  the  money  except  a  crown) 
Take  this  again,  sir. 

Mr.  A.    My  friend  you  make  me  blush. 

Old  M.  I  blush  myself  too.  Even  a  crown  is  too 
much  to  take.  Keep  the  rest  for  those  who  are  to 
beg  longer  than  I. 

Mr.  A.   I  feel  for  your  situation. 

Old  M.  I  hope  that  heaven  will  also  feel  for  it, 
and  for  your  generosity,  sir :  and  repay  it  to  you. 

Mr.  A.    Will  you  take  any  food  1 

Old  M.  I  have  already  had  some  broth  and 
some  bread. 

Mr.  A.  At  least  take  some  provision  v/ith  you. 

Old  M.  No,  sir  ;  I  will  not  affront  Providence 
so  much.     However,  a  glass  of  wine— just  one — 

Mr.  A.  More,  if  you  choose,  my  friend. 

Old  M  No,  sir,  only  one  ;  I  cannot  bear  more. 
You  deserve  that  I  should  drink  with  you  the  last 
drop  of  wine  that  I  shall  taste  upon  earth,  and  in 
heaven  I  will  tell  from  whom  I  received  it.  Boun- 
tiful God  !  even  a  cup  of  water  is  not  without  its 
recompense  from  thee.  (Mr.  Annesley  goes  for 
wine.      The  old  man  lifts  his  hands  to  heaven.)  My 


OLD    MAN    BEGGING.  215 

last  refreshment !  Heaven  reward  him  one  day 
who  gives  it  to  me. 

Mr.  A.  (returning  with  a  bottle  and  two  glasses) 
Take  this  glass  my  good  old  man.  I  have  brought 
one  for  myself  too.     We  will  drink  together. 

Old  31.  (looking  vp)  God  be  thanked  for  all 
the  blessings  of  this  life  !  May  the  Lord  grant 
that  your  latter  end  be  as  happy  as  mine. 

Mr.  A.  My  good  old  man,  stop  here  to-night. 
Nobody  shall  see  you,  if  you  desire  it. 

Old  M.  No,  sir,  I  cannot ;  my  time  is  precious. 

Mr.  A.  Can  I  serve  you  in  any  thing  further  1 

Old M.  I  could  wish  it,  sir,  for  your  sake.  But 
I  want  nothing  more  in  this  world  ;  nothing  but  a 
glove,  (looking  at  his  hand)  I  have  lost  mine. 

Mr.  A.  (taking  a  pair  out  of  his  pocket}  and  of- 
fering them)     Here,  my  good  friend. 

Old  31.  Keep  that ;  I  ask  only  one. 

Mr.  A.  And  why  not  take  the  other  1 

Old  31  This  hand  can  bear  the  air.  It  is  only 
the  left  that  suffers,  which  has  lost  its  warmth 
these  two  years,  (puts  the  glove  on  his  left  hand, 
and  gives  the  right  to  Mr.  Annesley.  I  shall  think 
of  you,  sir, 

Mr.  A.  And  I  too  of  you.  My  good  friend,  let 
me  accompany  you.  I  find  it  hard  to  keep  the 
promise  that  1  gave  you. 

Old  31.  Then  so  much  the  better  for  you,  sir,  if 
you  keep  it.  (going.) 

3Ir.  A.  Give  me  your  hand  once  more,  my  good 
old  man  !     It  is  full  of  blessings. 

O.M.  I  hope  to  take  you  by  the  handinParadise. 


216 


THE   LITTLE    VIXEN. 

•  Won't  you  do  what  I  bid  you,  Mr.  Obstinacy  1 
—Come,  come,  sir,  obey  ;  or  else  you'll  be  the 
worse  for  it,  I  can  tell  you.' — It  was  thus  Camilla, 
the  pert  little  vixen,  was  perpetually  rating  and  com- 
manding her  poor  brother. 

Might  her  word  be  taken,  he  did  every  thing 
amiss  :  whatever  she  thought  of  doing  was  a  master- 
piece of  reason  and  reflection.  The  diversions  he 
proposed  were  always  dull  and  heavy  in  her 
judgment ;  but  forgetting  this  decision,  the  next  day 
she  would,  most  likely,  choose  them  herself,  as  the 
liveliest  and  most  entertaining.  Her  unhappy 
brother  was  obliged,  on  pain  of  being  soundly 
lectured,  to  obey  her  whims  and  fancies.  If  he 
durst  attempt  to  show  her  the  unreasonableness  with 
which  she  acted,  she  would  that  moment  assume  her 
airs  ;  his  play-things  were  sure  to  go  to  ruin,  and  he 
be  forced  to  mope,  without  amusement,  in  a  corner 
of  the  room. 

Camilla's  parents  had  a  hundred  times  endeavour- 
ed to  break  her  of  this  fault.  Her  mother,  in 
particular,  assured  her  that  people  never  were 
beloved  by  others,  if  they  were  not  complaisant  and 
gentle;  that  a  little  girl,  who  would  on  all  occasions 
set  up  her  own  will  as  a  law  for  others,  would  be 
found  the  most  intolerable  creature  in  the  universe. 
These  prudent  lessons  made  no  impression  on  her 
heart.  Her  brother,sick  of  so  much  tyranny,  began 
to  lose  something  of  his  love  and  kindness  for  her; 


LITTLE    VIXEN.  217 

and  Camilla  was  so  far  from  shaking  off  her 
domineering  disposition  on  that  account,  that  she 
became  a  hundred  times  more  arbitrary. 

As  it  chanced,  a  gentleman  of  understandings  who 
was  always  remarkably  sincere  and  open  in  his 
speech  and  conduct,  dined  one  day,  with  Camilla's 
parents.  He  observed  with  what  a  haughty  air  she 
treated  her  little  brother,  nay,  and  every  body  in 
the  room.  At  first,  through  mere  politeness,  he 
kept  silence  ;  but,  tired  out  with  her  impertinence, 
he  addressed  his  discourse  to  Mrs.  Osborn,  as 
follows  :  '  Had  I  such  a  little  girl  as  your's  I  know 
what  I  would  do.5 

What,  Sir  ]    said  Mrs.  Osborn. 

You  shall  hear,  replied  the  gentleman.  I  have 
lately  come  from  France,  and  as  I  liked  to  see  the 
soldiers  exercise,  I  amused  myself  by  visiting  the 
grand  parade  as  frequently  as  I  had  leisure,  where 
the  soldiers  are  drawn  up  for  drill.  Among  them 
I  observed  many  with  whiskers ;  and  one  cannot 
but  acknowledge  they  looked  very  fierce,  as  soldiers 
should  do.  Now,  had  I  a  child  like  your  Camilla,  I 
would  instantly  give  her  a  soldier's  uniform,  and 
clap  a  pair  of  whiskers  on  her,  and  make  her  a  Swiss 
corporal,  so  that  she  might  completely  satisfy  her 
passion  for  commanding. 

Hearing  this,  Camilla  stood  confounded.  She 
could  not  refrain  from  blushing,  and  even  wept. 

From  that  time,  she  was  sensible  how  much  a 
tyrannizing  disposition  misbecame  her,  and  resolved 
to  shun  the  mortifying  consequences  it  would  sooner 

vol.  2.         19 


218  LITTLE    VIXEN. 

or  later  bring  upon  her.  This  resolve,  assisted  by 
the  prudent  counsels  of  her  mother  soon  proved 
successful. 

Such  a  change  was  doubtless  very  prudent  on  her 
part.  It  were  however  to  be  wished,  for  the  sake 
of  all  young  ladies  labouring  under  such  a  fault,  that 
they  would  yield  obedience  to  the  kind  instruction 
of  their  parents  on  this  subject ;  and  not  wait  till 
a  man  of  understanding  tells  them  to  their  face,  they 
would  look  better  in  a  surly  soldier's  uniform,  with 
whiskers,  than  drest  in  white  cambric  frocks,  like 
all  well-behaved  little  girls. 


CHARACTERS. 

Master  of 

THE 

Academy. 

Tutor. 

Eugenius, 

.     .     the  Master' 

Edward, 

Roderick, 

Theodore, 

C  Scholars. 

219 

THE    MILITARY    ACADEMY, 

A  DRAMA,  IN  TWO  PARTS. 

FIRST    PART,  IN  ONE  ACT. 


Son. 


The  Scene  is  in  the  Master's  Study. 

SCENE  I. 

The  Master  sits  writing  at  his  desk. 

Enter    Tutor,    {knocking  at   the   door   and    half 

opening  it.) 

Tutor.  Will  you  permit  me,  sir,  to  interrupt 
you  for  a  moment  ? 

Mast.  Come  in,  sir  ;  you  know,  whatever  time 
1  have  belongs  in  justice  to  the  duties  of  my  place. 

Tutor.  I  wish  to  tell  you  of  a  circumstance  not 
very  common,  that  has  happened  in  the  school 
within  these  few  days  past. 

Mast.     What  is  it  1     you  alarm  me  ! 

Tutor.  O,  there  is  no  occasion,  sir,  for  that: 
what  I  have  to  say  is  rather  affecting  than  alarming. 
What  are  your  ideas  of  our  last  pupil,  Edward 
Barton  ? 


220  MILITARY    ACADEMY. 

Mast.  For  the  ten  days  past,  that  he  has  been 
among  us,  you  are  sensible,  I  have  not  had  an 
opportunity  of  even  speaking  to  him.  This  however 
I  can  say  in  his  behalf,  that  when  his  parents 
brought  him,  I  remarked  something  in  his  counte- 
nance that  pleased  me  much.  Do  any  of  the  assist- 
ants take  offence  at  his  behaviour  ? 

Tutor.  The  reverse.  They  give  him  all  possible 
praise  for  his  diligence  ;  and  the  quickness  of  his 
understanding  also  charms  them.  He  has  come 
among  us  with  more  knowledge  than  our  own  scho- 
lars of  three  years  standing  generally  have ;  in 
short,  his  school-fellows  only  and  myself  have 
reason  to  be  discontented  with  him. 

Mast.  How,  sir!  have  you  reason  to  be  discon- 
tented with  him  ?  I  am  sorry  for  it. 

Tutor.  I  am  so  indeed  ;  but  much  less  on  my 
own  account  than  on  his.  I  do  not  know  what  it 
means,  but  there  must  be  some  deep  anxiety  upon 
his  mind.  I  have  had  recourse  to  many  methods 
for  discovering  il,  but  have  been  always  baffled. 

Mast.     What  is  his  behaviour? 

Tutor.  In  the  first  place,  sir,  he  is  very  studious 
when  in  school,  and  nothing  can  divert  him  from 
the  business  of  it :  but  in  play-time  he  is  silent  and 
reserved  among  the  scholars.  I  have  given  him  two, 
who  are  allowed  to  be  the  spriteliest,  as  com- 
panions, and  enjoined  them  to  do  every  thing  in 
their  power  to  please  him.  He  is  sensible  indeed 
to  their  endeavours,  and  acknowledges  their  kind- 
ness ;  but  when  all  is  done,  their  fire  is  utterly  in- 
capable of  warming  him,  and  he  appears  between 


MILITARY    ACADEMY.  221 

them  just  like  so  much  ice.  Ves,  gentlemen  ;  no, 
gentlemen  ;  and  such  like  monosyllables,  are  all  his 
answers  to  their  questions. 

Mast.  He  is  sad,  no  doubt,  at  being  separated 
from  his  parents? 

Tutor.  Yes,  it  is  very  natural  to  think  so  ;  yet 
his  sadness  has  continued  now  ten  days ;  and  can 
we  think  a  child  of  only  twelve  years  of  age  really 
susceptible  of  an  impression  for  that  length  of  time? 

Mast.  Not  often  :  but  a  child  of  so  much  eleva- 
tion as  I  thought  his  countenance  indicated  ! 

Tutor.  Pardon,  sir,  ray  contradicting  you  ;  for 
if  that  age  is  very  sensible,  it  is  variable  also,  and 
since  I  have  been  a  tutor  here,  I  have  noticed  that 
all  those  who  have  been  most  afflicted  at  the 
thought  of  being  separated  from  their  parents,  have, 
and  very  shortly,  been  induced  by  their  companions 
to  forget  that  separation.  Now  whatever  Edward's 
notions  may  be  on  this  head,  what  will  you  think 
when  I  have  told  you  every  thing  ? 

Mast.  You  raise  my  curiosity.  Proceed.  I 
look  to  be  informed  of  nothing  on  the  subject  of 
this  Edward  but  what  is  great  and  singular  ! 

Tutor.  Would  you  believe  it  then,  sir,  he 
refuses  every  thing  at  meal  time,  but  a  little  bread 
and  water.  It  is  not  possible  that  any  criminal 
should  be  condemned  to  coarser  fare  than  what  he 
voluntarily  chooses  ! 

Mast.  You  surprise  me  1  He  should  have 
Jived  at  Sparta. 

je    Tutor.     True,  sir  ;  but  with  us,  where  singularity 
19* 


222  MILITARY    ACADEMY. 

must  not  be  suffered,  and  the  little  soldier  is  to  be 
submissive  to  general  subordination,  there  is  room 
to  fear  some  danger  to  the  rest  in  his  example. 
Twenty  times  would  I  have  made  him  eat  the  food 
set  before  him  ;  but  to  all  my  instances,  he  has  no 
other  answer,  than  by  turning  towards  me,  in 
tears, — I  almost  weep  myself  to  think  of  his  af- 
fecting way. 

Mast.  I  am  not  unmoved.  This  disobedience 
is  however  blameable,  and  must  not  be  unpunished. 
If  he  should  persist  therein,  whatever  causes  it,  he 
cannot  possibly  stay  here.  The  intention  of  a 
military  school  is  nothing  less  than  that  the  scholars 
should  be  absolutely  subject  to  the  will  of  their 
instructcrs. 

Tutor.  His  dismission  was  indeed  the  circum- 
stance that  I  feared  ;  and  therefore  I  put  off  speak- 
ing of  his  disobedience  to  you.  I  was  every  day  in 
hope  that  his  resolution  would  be  conquered  ;  but 
it  still  continues. 

Mast.  Is  it  possible,  that  at  his  tender  age  he 
should  be  so  far  master  of  himself,  as  to  conceal  his 
thoughts  from  one  so  exercised  as  you  are  in 
examining  the  dispositions  of  young  people? 

Tutor.  He  is,  what  you  called  him  just  now,  a 
true  Spartan.  His  behaviour,  though  not  tinctured 
with  a  grain  of  pride,  is  perfectly  seducing.  Such 
is,  I  may  say,  his  manner  of  concealing  what  afflicts 
him,  that  one  cannot  but  be  really  admonished  at 
his  silence,  and  yet  not  harsh  enough  to  think  him. 
obstinate.  j- 

Mast.     I  will  sound  him  then  myself.     The  light 


MILITARY   ACADEMY.  223 

in  which  you  place  his  portrait,  adds  considerably 
to  the  fair  opinion  that  I  formed  on  my  first  seeing 
him.  If  I  can  possibly  prevail  upon  him  to  reveal 
the  cause  of  his  affliction,  I  persuade  myself  I  shall 
be  fully  compensated  for  my  trouble  in  obtaining  it. 

Tutor.  On  my  part,  threats,  entreaties,  and 
persuasion,  have  been  all  employed  without  effect. 
Of  course  then,  I  must  fear,  your  efforts  will  be  no 
less  unsuccessful,  though  I  wish  the  contrary,  and 
should  be  even  happy  if  it  proved  so. 

Mast.  In  the  first  place,  I  mean  to  question 
those  whom  you  said  you  had  enjoined  to  keep  him 
company. — Who  are  they  ? 

Tutor.  Theodore  and  Roderick  :  but  your  son 
Eugenius,  sir,  will  give  you  better  information. 

Mast.     How  !  has  Edward  interested  Mm  then  ? 

Tutor.  He  thinks  more,  I  verily  believe,  of 
Edward,  than  himself.  1  have  observed  him  study- 
ing his  actions  silently.  Has  he  never  uttered  a 
syllable  to  you  about  him? 

Mast.  No  :  but  I  am  as  well  pleased  with  his 
reserve  as  his  attention.  It  proclaims  a  secret 
sympathy  between  him  and  the  youth  who  has  at- 
tracted him.  You  will  oblige  me  by  conducting 
them  all  three  together  here  this  instant. 

Tutor.  I  would  rather  send  them  ;  as  they  will 
think  my  presence  a  restraint.  They  will  be  free, 
if  I  am  absent. 

Mast.  Right:  so  let  them  come  alone  ;  and  send 
Edward  likewise,  when  you  find  that  they  have 
left  me;   or,  on  second  thoughts,  let  him  sit  down 


224  MILITARY    ACADEMY. 

and  wait  my  coming  in  the  parlour.     I  will  be  with 
him  shortly.  [Exit  Tutor.] 

SCENE  II.    Master,  alone. 

This  affair  is  all  a  mystery  to  me  !  It  is  very 
natural  that  Edward  should  grieve  at  being  separated 
from  his  parents.  It  is  impossible  that  a  boy  of 
such  promising  qualities  should  not  be  extremely 
dear  to  every  one  who  knows  him,  and  have  had 
continual  marks  of  their  indulgence ;  but  that 
nothing  should  have  mitigated  his  affliction  in  the 
period  of  ten  days,  surrounded  by  so  many  of  his 
age,  and  all  desirous  to  amuse  him  ;  and  still  more, 
that  he  should  wish  for  nothing  in  the  world  but 
bread  and  water,  is  inexplicable  !  What  the 
children  have  to  eat  is  very  good,  and  therefore 
could  not  from  its  quality  disgust  him.  Besides,  he 
was  never  used  at  home  to  better  fare.  His  father, 
at  his  bringing  him  to  school,  informed  me  he  was 
far  from  rich,  and  had  a  numerous  family  to  main- 
tain. The  more  I  think  of  his  behaviour,  the  more 
I  think  it  wonderful !     (He  walks  about  in  thought.) 

Enter  Eugenius,  Roderick,  Theodore. 

Eug.  We  come,  papa,  according  to  your  order. 
The  tutor  told  us  that  we  were  wanted  ;  Theodore, 
Roderick,  and  myself. 

Mast.  Yes,  Eugenius.  I  desire  to  have  a  little 
conversation  with  all  of  you. 

Rod.  and  Theo.     It  is  doing  us  great  honour. 

Eugen.  Yes,  and  pleasure  too ;  at  least  I 
think  so. 


MILITARY    ACADEMY.  225 

Mast,  (to  Theo.  and  Rod.)  I  am  told,  you  are 
not  quite  contented  with  your  new  companion's 
conduct  1 

Rod.  To  confess  the  truth,  sir,  he  is  indeed  a 
little  of  the  dullest  ;  this  same  master — What's  his 


name 


Theo.  He  has  spoken  so  little  to  us,  we  do  not 
recollect  what  name  he  goes  b}\ 

Eug.  Edward  Barton.  For  his  name,  I  do  not 
think  much  of  that,  in  preference  to  any  other  :  but 
his  person,  that  is  another  thing,  and  I  am  hap- 
py to  be  acquainted  with  him. 

Rod.  Edward?  a  good  name  enough,  if  Dummy 
were  but  added.     Master  Edward  Dummy  ! 

Eug.  O,  papa  !  pray  do  not  let  Roderick 
ridicule  poor  Edward  in  this  manner  ! 

Mast.  Master  Roderick,  who  has  authorized 
you  to  distribute  epithets  among  your  school-fellows 
thus? 

Rod.  Because  he  does  not  speak  three  words  in 
half  an  hour.  Had  he  come  to  us  from  the  moon, 
I  should  not  wonder  at  it.  He  is  so  pale  and 
mopish,  he  would  not  belie  his  country. 

Mast.  Should  his  paleness  then,  or  mopishness, 
as  you  are  pleased  to  call  it,  make  you  hate  him  ? 

Rod.  I  am  not  his  enemy  ;  far  from  it,  sir  ;  but 
cannot  be  his  friend,  since  he  does  nothing  to  divert 
us,  after  we  have  taken  so  much  pains  to  make  him 
speak. 

-  Theo.  The  night,  sir,  is  surely  long  enough  for 
silence.  The  day  was  made  for  amusement  and 
talking:. 


226  MILITARY    ACADEMY. 

Rod.  Must  I  be  dull,  because  he  takes  so  much 
delight  in  dullness  ? 

Eug.  Poor  young  man!  You  should  not  call 
it  dullness  ;  it  is  uneasiness. 

Rod.  And  did  we  not  do  everything  in  our  pow- 
er to  make  him  cheerful  ?  The  more  we  play  our 
tricks  to  make  him  smile,  the  more  his  sober 
sadness  gains  on  him.  We  have  done  with  him  at 
last  in  our  diversions  ;  but  still  find  him  when  we 
come  to  dinner,  where  he  makes  such  faces  as  are 
enough  to  make  us  hungry  again. 

Mast.  Has  he  any  disgusting  method,  as  some 
children  have,  of  eating? 

Rod.  He  must  needs  be  very  awkward,  were  his 
manners  sickening  ;  since  he  eats  bread  only,  and 
drinks  nothing  but  clear  water. 

Theo.  He  affects  a  puny  stomach,  merely  to 
show  us  what  good  things  he  had  at  home. 

Eug.  You  very  much  mistake  him,  if  you  fancy 
it  is  from  pride.  I  watched  him  yesterday,  when 
he  had  good  roast  beef  put  before  him,  and  could 
see,  though  he  concealed  his  face,  that  his  eyes 
were  full  of  tears. 

Mast.     Is  it  so,  Eugenius  ? 

Rod.  Yes,  he  very  often  whimpers  ;  and  if  once 
Don  Quixote  should  return  again  to  life,  they  would 
fight  to  know  which  of  them  should  be  called 
Knight  of  the  Woful  Visage. 

Mast.  Are  you  so  unfeeling  as  to  make  a  jest 
of  his  affliction  ? 

Rod.  He  is  enough  to  make  us  also  of  Don 
Quixote's  order.     It  is  quite  dismal  to  see  such  a 


MFLITARY    ACADEMY.  227 

countenance  at  dinner  :  it  deprives  us  of  our 
appetite.  Commend  me  to  Theodore  :  it  would 
give  you  a  good  appetite  to  see  him  eat. 

3Iast.  You  would  be  glad  then,  I  suppose,  to 
rid  yourselves  of  Edward  at  table  ? 

Rod.  Yes,  sir,  with  all  our  hearts,  unless  he 
would  become  a  little  merry. 

Eug.  Well  then,  papa,  let  him  sit  at  mine.  I 
should  be  glad  to  have  him  by  me,  and  will  take 
care  of  him. 

Mast.  You  are  not  afraid  then  of  his  sadness, 
like  these  gentlemen  ? 

Eug.  I  am  sorrowful  to  see  him  sad  ;  but 
merely  upon  that  account  would  show  him  all  the 
friendship  in  my  power.  He  would  not  be  so  un- 
happy, did  he  know  that  we  pity  him. 

Mast.  Can  neither  of  you  guess  the  reason  of 
his  melancholy  ? 

Theo.  To  confess  the  truth,  I  never  thought  of 
asking  him. 

Rod.  Why  wish  to  know  things  that  are  sure  to 
make  one  sad  ? 

Mast.  And,  Eugenius,  can  you  let  me  have  no 
better  information  ? 

Eug.  No,  indeed,  papa.  I  should  have  been 
rejoiced  to  know  the  secret,  and  to  console  him 
were  it  in  my  power.  Three  times  have  I  begged 
him  to  reveal  it  ;  but  durst  go  no  further,  when  I 
saw  he  was  resolved  to  keep  it.  Doubtless  he  does 
not  think  me  yet  sufficiently  his  friend  to  trust  me 
with  it.  I  must  therefore  merit  his  reliance  on  me 
by  my  services. 


228  MILITARY    ACADEMY. 

Mast.  But  why,  Eugenius,  did  you  tell  me 
nothing  of  all  this  before  ? 

Eug.  Because  I  thought  that  you  would  have 
forced  him  to  conduct  himself  upon  a  footing  with 
the  rest,  and  have  reprimanded  him  in  case  of  his 
refusal.  You  have  given  me  your  permission  to  be 
always  in  the  school  ;  and  I  shall  never  be  so 
mean  as  to  betray  my  companions  by  telling  tales. 
But  if  ever  they  do  any  thing  that  merits  commenda- 
tion, never  fear  but  I  will  make  you  acquainted 
with  it. 

Mast.  I  expected  nothing  less,  my  dear  Eugen- 
ius,  from  your  sensibility  ;  and  am  quite  charmed 
to  find  myself  not  disappointed.  (To  Tkeo.  and 
Rod.)  I  am  sorry,  gentlemen,  that  I  cannot  bestow 
the  same  eulogium  on  your  conduct.  I  could  cer- 
tainly have  wished  that  you  had  evinced  a  little 
affection,  or  at  least  some  slight  consideration,  for 
poor  Edward  in  his  sorrow.  Return  to  your 
amusements  ;  it  were  a  pity  to  disturb  you  in  them. 
If  your  dspositions  preserve  you  from  some  sort  of 
sorrows,  I  am  grievously  afraid  that  it  hinders  you 
from  relishiug  those  exquisite  delights  which  a 
generous  heart  experiences.  (  Tkeo.  and  Rod.  leave 
the  r oo7n.) 

Mast.  You  only  are  worthy  to  enjoy  those  ex- 
quisite delights.  I  rejoice  to  find  you  so  compas- 
sionate towards  others  in  their  sorrow  ! 

Eug.  Who,  papa,  could  possibly  refrain  from 
pitying  the  unhappy  Edward  1  His  dejection  and 
his  paleness,  every  thing  tells  of  some  uncommon 
cause  of  sorrow  in  his  heart.     So  young  !   and  yet 


MILITARY    ACADEMY.  229 

so  miserable  !  I  avoided  him  at  6rst,  just  like  the 
rest,  and  thought  him  morose  and  savage.  But 
when  I  afterwards  noticed  his  consistency  and  per- 
severance, his  condescension  and  politeness,  I  was 
gradually  attracted  to  him,  and  in  the  end  gave 
him  all  my  friendship.  I  think,  1  should  conceive 
a  great  deal  better  of  myself,  could  I  but  merit  his. 

Mast.  You  know,  however,  that  his  behaviour 
has  incurred  the  crime  of  disobedience  1 

Eug.  Yes,  at  table. — I  cannot  possibly  conceive 
the  meaning  of  it :  but,  perhaps  he  fancies  that  every 
soldier  should  live  coarsely.  After  all,  his  singular 
abstemiousness  is  better  than  the  glnttony  of  others ; 
and  the  example  that  he  holds  out  can  injure  no 
one.  Pray  then  let  him  still  continue  what  is  so 
much  to  his  liking,  being,  as  he  is,  so  punctual  to 
duty,  and  so  diligent  in  school.  He  is  first  of  his 
class  in  mathematics,  geography,  and  drawing. 

Mast.  But  a  conduct  which  so  openly  infringes 
upon  rule  and  order,  cannot  be  excused  in  any 
circumstance,  nor  from  any  motive. — I  perceive, 
I  shall  be  forced  to  send  him  home. 

Eug.  You  do  not  mean  so,  papa  1  What !  for 
so  slight  a  fault,  and  one  that  perhaps  merits  praise 
rather  than  censure,  will  you  send  him  off  as  if  his 
principles  were  vicious  ?     Let  me  then  go  with  him. 

Mast.  How,  Eugenius  !  are  you  so  attached  to 
him  1     For  what  reason  1 

Eug.  I  cannot  tell  you  ;  yet,  if  you  will  but 
have  a  little  conversation  with  him,  you  will  perhaps 
discern   the   reason.     How   rejoiced   I    should  be, 

vol.  2.  20 


^0  MILITARY   ACADEMY. 

were  he  but  my  brother  !  I  should  only  have  this  to 
fear,  that  you  would  love  him  more  than  you  do  me 
at  present. 

Mast.  I  have  sent  for  him,  and  mean  to  have 
some  conversation  with  him  here.  I  shall  then 
discern  if  he  is  worthy  of  inspiring  such  strong  attach- 
ment, and  sincerely  hope  that  you  have  not  mis- 
judged in  the  affair.  If  so,  I  promise — but  of  that 
another  time.  I  hear  a  knock.  Step  into  the 
adjoining  room,  that  if  I  call,  you  may  come  to  us. 

Eug.  Yes,  papa.  (Eugenius  goes  out.  The 
Master  rises  to  open  the  door.) 

SCENE  IV. 
Edioard  entering,  bows  to  the  Master,  who  sits  down. 
Edward  stands  before  him. 

Mast.  Well,  master  Barton,  can  you  conjecture 
why  I  sent  for  you  ? 

Ed.     Yes,  sir,  I  am  afraid  I  guess  the  reason. 

Mast.  It  is  true,  then,  that  you  disdain  the 
company  and  conversation  of  your  school-mates, 
and  disturb  their  pastimes  by  such  whims  as  were 
never  heard  of  in  persons  of  your  age? 

Ed.  I  dare  answer,  sir,  with  all  the  deference 
and  respect  that  I  owe  you,  it  was  never  my  inten- 
tion to  do  either. 

Mast.  You  have  been  told,  for  instance,  what 
rules  the  scholars  are  to  observe,  when  at  meals, 
and  yet  you  choose  to  live  on  bread  and  water. 

Ed.     True,  sir  ;  I  want  nothing  more. 

Mast.  The  Tutor  has  endeavoured  to  convince 
you  how  improper  such  a  singularity  must  be  con- 


MILITARY   ACADEMY.  231 

sidered,  and  yet  finds  you  fixed  to  persevere 
therein. 

Ed.     Yes,  sir. 

Mast.  And  think  you  such  a  preference  com- 
mendable 1 

Ed.     Not,  sir,  in  your  thoughts,  I  own. 

Mast.  It  is  then  a  matter  of  indifference  to  you, 
whether  you  do  right  or  wrong  in  my  opinion  ? 

Ed.  No,  sir;  for  in  that  case,  I  should  heed  as 
little  your  reproaches  as  your  praise.  I  know  what 
obligation  I  am  under  to  obey  you,  and  have  often 
blamed  myself  for  not  complying  with  your  plea- 
sure, in  the  regulations  of  this  place  ;  but  still  have 
found  it  utterly  impossible  to  do  so.  Heaven  is 
witness  for  me,  notwithstanding,  that  I  am  not 
quite  so  guilty  as  appearances  proclaim. 

Mast.  I  will  readily  allow  you  are  yourself  per- 
suaded of  your  innocence,  and  therefore  think,  that 
you  have  such  reasons  as  will  justify  your  disobedi- 
ence.— Have  you  anything  to  say  t 

Ed.     Nothing,  sir. 

Mast.  But  surely  you  must  know,  that  disobedi- 
ence is  a  bad  example,  even  though  you  think  that 
your  motives  will  excuse  you. 

Ed.  I  have  had  the  honour  to  acknowledge  that 
myself. 

Mast.  That  hitherto  it  has  been  tolerated  from 
the  hope  of  your  amendment. 

Ed.     Always. 

Mast.  And,  in  short,  that  by  your  obstinacy  you 
have  merited  already  the  severest  punishment. 

Ed.     I  am  ready  to  endure  it. 


232  MILITARY    ACADEMY. 

Mast.     But  not  ready  to  amend  your  conduct  ? 

Ed.     It  is  impossible. 

Mast.  I  see  then,  and  T  am  sorry  for  it,  that  it 
will  be  impossible  for  me  to  keep  you  here  a  moment 
longer  ;  as  it  would  be  contrary  to  all  good  order, 
to  suffer  such  an  instance  of  rebellion  in  an  institution 
of  this  kind. 

Ed.  What  will  become  of  me  !  wretched  as  I 
am  !  O  sir !  must  I  then  be  at  last  a  burthen  to 
my  parents,  and  an  object  of  contempt  to  others  ? 
Have  I  merited  this  sentence  ? 

Mast.  Have  you  merited  this  sentence!  When 
you  will  not  place  the  least  degree  of  confidence  in 
me,  do  you  ask  that  question  ?  Would  you  hide  a 
secret  from  your  father  1  I  am  here  to  be  a 
father  to  you,  and  you  refuse  to  show  yourself  a  son 
to  me ! 

Ed.  If  such,  sir,  be  your  condescension,  I  will 
give  you  the  possession  of  my  heart.  I  could  stand 
patiently  and  hear  your  threats,  but  cannot  be  unaf- 
fected by  your  friendship  :  yes,  sir,  I  will  lay  my 
whole  heart  before  you,  and  make  known  the 
affliction  that  opresses  me. 

Mast.  You  are  willing  then  to  think  yourself  my 
son  ! 

Ed.  If  you  are  then  willing  to  become  my 
second  father. 

Mast.  My  dear  Edward  !  call  me  for  the  future 
only  by  that  name. 

Ed.  Well  then,  my  father,  I  have  one  at  home 
so  poor,  that  he  subsists  on  scarcely  better  food  than 
bread  and  water.     My  poor  mother  likewise  is  as 


MILITARY    ACADEMY.  233 

reduced  as  he  is ;  I  have  two  sisters,  and  as  many 
brothers,  who  enjoy  no  better  fare.  And  can  I  then 
indulge  my  appetite,  and  live  on  your  good  things, 
while  they  have,  as  it  were,  nothing  more  than 
bread  to  moisten  with  their  tears?  No,  no  ;  much 
rather  would  I  die  of  hunger.  I  am  Edward  Barton, 
and  there  never  was  a  father  of  that  name  who  had 
a  son  unworthy  of  him. 

Mast.  Has  no  one  solicited  government  in  favour 
of  so  old  a  soldier  1 

Edw.  No  one,  sir  ;  but  he  is  destitute  of  all 
things,  after  having  served  his  country  two-and- 
twenty  years  with  honour,  and  consumed  the  little 
he  had  left  in  soliciting  a  pension.  On  the  eve  of 
my  departure  for  this  place,  I  heard  him  read  the 
story  of  Count  Ugolino,  who  was  shut  up  in  a  cas- 
tle with  his  family,  to  die  of  hunger.  Since  that 
moment,  this  sad  story  has  been  always  in  my 
mind.  I  think  that  I  incessantly  hear  the  parish 
bells  tolling  for  the  burial  of  my  father,  mother, 
brothers,  and  poor  sisters.  Can  I  then  make  mer- 
ry, when  my  heart  is  overwhelmed  with  grief?  and 
eat  such  food  as  my  afflicted  parents  cannot  pur- 
chase ?  If  I  could,  I  should  be  no  longer  Edward 
Barton.  While  my  father  is  unhappy,  in  whatever 
corner  of  the  earth  I  may  be,  nothing  shall  prevent 
me  from  enduring  his  affliction.     If  the  king — 

31ast.  The  king  certainly  knows  not  your  fath- 
er's situation  :  if  he  did,  he  would  have  softened  it. 
I  will  use  my  interest  to  convey  the  knowledge  of 
it  to  him  ;  and  do  you  relv  upon  his  justice.  My 
20* 


234  MILITARY    ACADEMY. 

dear  Edward,  why  not  tell  me  this  before  ?  You  at 
least  might  have  spared  your  family  ten  days  dis- 
tress. 

Edw.  You  think  then,  sir,  that  I  shall  become  so 
happy  as  to  save  him   at  my  years  ? 

Mast.  I  hope  so  ;  and  at  least  am  certain  that 
your  behaviour  has  relieved  him.  Generous  boy  ! 
I  am  proud  of  such  a  son. 

Edw.  You  are  the  father  too  of  all  my  family,  if 
through  your  friendship  they  may  be  assisted  ;  but 
alas,  sir  !  we  have  been  so  long  unhappy,  it  is  not 
to  be  hoped — 

Master.  Hoped  !  Edward  1  Should  you  doubt 
of  what  1  tell  }'ou,  it  would  be  an  insult  to  me.  I 
have  told  you  that  I  was  certain  your  behaviour  had 
relieved  your  parents,  since  relief  depends  upon 
myself  alone  :  and  therefore,  (going  to  his  bureau, 
and  giving  him  a  paper ,)  till  I  have  tried  the  ef- 
fect of  my  interest,  which  is  not  inconsiderable,  take 
this  :  it  is  a  twenty  pound  bank  note,  and  what 
your  second  father  gives  you,  as  the  first  fruit  of  his 
love. 

Edw.  Give  me  !  what  need  can  I  have  for  it  ? 
Send  your  generous  present  to  my  father  !  there  it 
will  be  useful. 

Mast.  He  shall  know  that  he  is  indebted  for  it 
to  your  filial  piety,  and  now,  my  dear  Edward,  you 
will  no  longer  live  on  bread  and  water  ! 

Edw.  Not  till  my  poor  father  is  reduced  again 
to  do  so. 

Mast.  And  in  future,  you  will  be  joyous  with 
your  comrades  ? 


MILITARY    ACADEMY.  235 

Edzc.  While  my  father  is  joyous  with  his  wife 
and  children. 

Mast.  Well  then,  run  and  write  your  father  an 
account  of  this  transaction  :  I  will  instantly  set  off 
for  London.  I  shall  see  a  nobleman  of  considera- 
ble interest  this  very  morning. 

Edw.  How  shall  I  collect  my  spirits,  to  return 
you  thanks  in  such  a  manner  as  I  ought,  sir "? 

Mast,  (smiling.)  Sir  ! — It  seems  then  you  forget 
already  that  you  are  my  son  1 

Edw.  O,  my  dear,  dear  father  !  pardon  me,  if 
being,  as  I  am,  beside  myself — 

Mast.  Go,  go,  my  child,  and  leave  me  here  a 
little.  I  have  no  less  occasion  to  compose  myself 
than  you  have. 

Edw.  I  will  come  back  very  shortly,  with  my 
letter.  You  must  see  it.  so  do  not  go,  dear  father, 
till  I  have  once  again  spoken  to  you  ! 

3Iast.  No,  my  son  ;  I  will  not  deny  myself  that 
pleasure.  Run  and  write  your  letter  :  I  will  wait 
for  you. 

SCENE  V. 
Master,  alone. 

Fortunate  occurrence  !  O  happy  day  !  What  a 
number  of  affecting  objects  present  themselves  be- 
fore me  !  A  brave  soldier,  for  whose  services  I  am 
about  to  procure  a  recompense  !  and  his  son,  whom 
I  may  form  into  a  man,  and  so  contribute  to  the 
glory  of  my  country  !  My  Eugenius,  who  appears 
so  sensible  of  the  virtuous  impression  made  on  his 
heart,  and  so  worthy  of  the  friend  he  has  selected  ! 
My  sovereign,   to  whose  notice  I  shall   introduce  a 


236  MILITARY   ACADEMY. 

little  hero,   such  as  his  munificence  may  cherish  ! 
and  a  suffering  wife  and  children,  such  as  his  com- 
passion may  deliver  from  affliction. 
Enter  Tutor. 

Mast.  You  are  come,  sir,  quite  apropos,  to  share 
my  transports. 

Tutor.  What  has  caused  them,  my  good  sir  1 
You  seem  no  less  agitated  than  young  Edward,  who 
ran  by  me  wild  with  pleasure  ;  for  he  did  not  see 
me,  did  not  seem  as  if  he  trod  upon  the  ground. 
His  eyes  beamed  with  rapture,  though  the  tears 
that  he  had  been  shedding  were  not  yet  dry. — 
I  called  to  him,  but  he  could  not  hear  me. 

Mast.  It  would  have  charmed  you  to  witness 
what  passed  between  us.  It  was  a  moment  such  as 
does  not  twice  occur  in  any  one  man's  life. 

Tutor.  Your  hope  then  is  not  disappointed.  You 
have  wrought  upon  him  to  reveal  the  cause  of  his 
affliction. 

Mast.  But  what  difficulty  had  I  to  obtain  my 
wish  !  what  pain  it  gave  me  to  upbraid  him  !  and 
how  nobly  he  withstood  me  !  How  much  honour 
even  does  his  disobedience  reflect  on  him  ! 

Tutor.  I  foresaw  as  much  in  general,  though  I 
could  not  clear  up  the  particulars,  to  reason  on 
them. 

Mast.  Who  could  possibly  have  guessed  at  the 
excess  of  his  affection  !  he  was  prompted  to  deny 
his  appetite  at  table,  that  he  might  not  fare  in  the 
least  degree  better  than  his  parents.  At  so  great  a 
distance  from  them,  he  supported  such  privations, 
though   he  knew,  by  so  doing,  he  could  not  succour 


MILITARY    ACADEMY.  237 

them.  What  think  you  of  so  rare  a  youth  1  What 
think  you  of  a  father,  surrounded  by  misfortunes, 
who  has  been  able  thus  to  form  his  son  to  virtue  1 
What  exalted  pleasure  for  a  monarch  to  reward 
such  virtue  !  I  am  proud,  my  friend,  that  I  have  it 
in  my  power  to  convey  to  his  royal  ear,  intelligence 
of  this  poor  youth,  and  his  father's  sufferings  and 
deserts.  There  is  but  one  thing  else  would  yield 
me  greater  satisfaction.  I  should  like  to  be  in  such 
a  situation,  as  to  give  him  an  account  of  all  his  mer- 
itorious subjects.  I  would  so  exalt  his  throne,  that 
he  should  then  be  able  to  look  down  on  every  vir- 
tuous man  in  his  dominions,  while  they,  looking  up, 
should  see  him  in  the  act  of  applauding  and  encour- 
aging their  virtue.  Thus,  without  the  wretched 
breath  of  adulation,  might  a  king  be  really  called  a 
god  among  his  subjects. 

Tutor.  Our  king  is  worthy  of  your  solicitude,  to 
interest  him  in  behalf  of  Edward  and  his  parents. 

Mast.  That  is  what  I  told  him  I  would  do  ;  and 
his  gratitude  was  very  great.  But  I  hear  some  one 
coming  1 — I  believe  it  is  he.  Step  into  this  apart- 
ment ;  you  will  find  Eugenius  there  ;  I  shall  soon 
require  your  presence  again,  if  it  be  Edward. 

(Tutor  ivithdraws. 
SCENE  IV. 

Master,  alone.  Yes,  it  is  he  ;  and  how  expressive 
even  at  this  distance  is  his  whole  countenance  ! 

Enter  Edward. 
Edio.  My  dear  father,  here  is  my  letter. 
Mast.    I  observe,  it  is  not  sealed,  and  therefore 
you  would  have  me  read  it  ? 


238  MILITARY    ACADEMY. 

Edw.    Would  1   It  is  every  line  about  you. 

Mast,  reading.  "  Father,  mother,  brothers  and 
sisters  !  Come  all  of  you  together,  while  this  letter 
is  reading.  O,  that  I  were  present,  and  could  read 
it  to  you  myself:  but  I  am  present,  and  observe 
you.  Weep  no  longer,  as  I  trust  you  are  no  lon- 
ger to  subsist  on  bread  and  tears.  There  are  on 
earth  as  in  heaven,  generous  bosoms,  of  whom  the 
master  of  our  academy  is  one,  as  I  have  found. 
He  is  a  father  to  me,  let  me  call  him  so  ;  or  rather 
the  protecting  angel  of  our  family.  Would  you  be- 
lieve it  !  he  has  sent  you  this  from  himself,  and 
will  solicit  you  a  pension,  which  he  says  he  doubts 
not  of  obtaining  for  you  !  Fall  on  your  knees  and 
bless  God  as  I  do,  for  sending  us  such  a  benefac- 
tor."—  The  master  stops,  and  seeing  Edward  on  his 
knees,  raises  him,  and  takes  him  by  the  hand, — Do 
not  kneel  to  me. 

Edw.  I  offer  to  you  my  life.  Dispose  of  it  as 
you  please. 

Mast.  Keep  it  for  the  accomplishment  of  wor- 
thy and  illustrious  actions.  Mine  is  posting  fast  to 
decay;  but  by  your  conduct,  you  may  lengthen  it. 

Edw.  eagerly.  I,  father  !  Shall  I  ever  be  so 
happy  1 — Speak,  sir,  and  inform  me  by  what  means 
I  may  experience  so  much  heartfelt  satisfaction. 

Mast.  By  your  friendship  for  my  son.  (He  opens 
the  adjoining  door.)  Eugenius,  come  and  embrace 
your  brother. 

Enter  Eugenius  and  Tutor.     Edward  and  Eu- 
genius ?'ush  into  each  other's  arms. 


MILITARY    ACADEMY.  239 

Mast.  Edward,  he  is  worthy  of  your  friendship. 
His  affection  for  you  went  before  his  father's. 

Edw.  I  could  clearly  see  indeed,  that  my  suffer- 
ings moved  him. 

Eug.  You  shall  never  suffer  for  the  future,  but 
mvself  shall  be  a  sharer  with  you.  Shall  I  not, 
dear  Edward  1 

Edic.  (taking  Eugenius  by  the  hand,  and  pre- 
senting it  with  his  own  to  the  Master)  Well  then, 
Eugenius,  let  us  thus  connect  ourselves  as  friends 
for  ever,  in  the  hands  of  our  good  father. 

Mast.  Yes,  dear  children,  I  approve  your  wishes, 
and  bestow  my  blessing  on  them.  Let  those  happy 
days  return,  as  far  as  your  example  can  have  influ- 
ence, when  the  field  for  combat  was  a  theatre  for 
friendship.  When  warriors  united  the  most  ami- 
able private  qualities  to  the  most  undaunted  cour- 
age. Let  Sidney  and  Wolfe  be  your  model;  serve 
your  country  with  fidelity  like  theirs.  Live,  as 
they  did,  admired  by  all  mankind,  and,  if  necessary, 
die  as  they  did,  regretted,  in  the  service  of  your 
country. 


MILITARY    ACADEMY. 


FIRST    SCENE    AT    CAPTAIN    BARTON'S. 


241 
THE    MILITARY    ACADEMY. 

SECOND  PART. 

A      DRAMA,     IN      ONE      ACT. 


characters. 

Captain  Barton. 

Mrs.  Barton. 

Ed\va.rd,  ~] 

Paul, 

Theodore,  }  their  Children. 

LUCRETIA, 

Isabel,  J 

Master  of  the  Academy. 
Eugenics,  his  Son. 
Pipes,  an  old  Sergeant. 

Scene,  an  apartment  in  Capt.  Barton's  House. 

SCENE  I. 
Paul,    Theodore,  Liicretia,  Isabel,  Pipes. 
Lucretia  and  Isabel  are  both  employed  ;  the  one  in 
reading,  and  the  other  at  her  tambour  frame.    The- 
odore has  a  pencil,  and  is  drawing.     Paid  shoul- 
ders Pipes'1  crutch. 

Pipes  to  Paid. 

Make  ready  ! — Present  ! — Fire  ! — Come  ;  very 
well.  Another  lesson  will  complete  you.  Give 
me  back  my  crutch.  ( To  Luree.  and  Isabel)  You 
will  not  let  me  teach  you  then  ? 

Lucrttia.     Teaches  ? 

Isa.     Young  ladies  ? 
vol.  2.  21 


242  MILITARY    ACADEMY. 

Pipes.  And  why  not  ?  A  soldier's  children 
should  all  learn  their  exercise.  One  never  looks  so 
well  as  with  a  musket. 

Lucretia.  Particularly  when  a  crutch  must  repre- 
sent it. 

Pipes.  True  ;  but  I  mistake  it  frequently  my- 
self, miss  Lucretia  ;  and  incline  to  put  it  over  rather 
than  under  my  shoulder.  It  is,  in  truth,  a  sort  of 
instinct  in  me,  my  first  motion.  Ah,  poor  Pipes  ! 
to  have  a  crutch,  instead  of  a  gun  in  his  hand.  For 
ten  years  I  have  carried  it  about,  and  not  used  to  it 
yet. 

Paul.  But  recollect,  Pipes  !  at  your  age  you 
would  certainly  have  been  otherwise  dismissed. 

Pipes.  Dismissed  !  what  mean  you,  master  Paul  1 
Had  it  not  been  for  my  wooden  leg,  I  should  have 
died  a  soldier.  Confounded  leg  !  a  hundred  times 
a  day  I  find  myself  disposed  to  make  a  bonfire  of  it  I 
Instead  of  a  fine  white  spatterdash,  when  I  see  noth- 
ing but  a  wooden  stump,  I  hardly  know  myself, 
and  fall  into  a  passion. 

Theo.  Would  you  wish  to  have  it  otherwise  ? 
Why,  man,  it  is  nothing  but  the  fortune  of  war. 

Isa.  And  is  it  thus  that  Theodore  comforts  you  ! 
Do  not  be  afflicted,  Pipes. 

Pipes.  You  are  in  the  right,  my  dear  miss  Isa- 
bel ;  for  after  all,  it  bears  me  witness  I  have  seen 
hot  service.  If  my  leg  had  not  been  in  the  fire,  it 
would  hardly  be  so  dry  now.  In  fact,  I  know  some 
legs  that  are  in  their  place^  because  they  carried 
their  owners  out  of  danger  ;  and  I  would  not  ex- 
change my  wooden  leg  for  twenty  such.     Young 


MILITARY    ACADEMY.  243 

gentlemen,  it  is  happy  for  you  both  that  you  are  to 
serve  ;  but  take  my  counsel,  and  lose  arms  as  well 
as  legs,  rather  than  get  the  least  spot  in  your  hon- 
our for  want  of  courage. 

Theo.     Yes,  I  promise  you  I  will. 

Paul.  And  so  will  I.  When  I  am  fighting,  I 
will  always  think  of  you. 

Pipes.  Do,  master  Paul  ;  and  your  brave  father 
too.  Barton  and  Pipes  shall  be  your  charging 
words.  With  these  two  names  between  your  lips, 
you  will  always  be  the  first  to  do  your  duty. 

SCENE  II. 
Theodore,  Paul,   Tjucretia,  Isabel,  Pipes,  Captain 

Barton,  (who  has  entered  towards  the  close  of  the 

preceding  scene). 

The  Children,  (seeing  Capt.  Barton, run  together 
towards  him,  and  cry  all  at  once.)     Here  is  papa  ! 

Capt.  Barton,  (embracing  them.)  Good-morning 
to  you  all,  my  dears  !  Good-morning  to  you,  Pipes, 
(holding  out  his  hand)  and  thauk  you  heartily  for 
your  instructions  to  my  children. 

Pipes.  Ah,  sir,  my  instructions  I  bestow  upon 
them  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  when  you  are 
not  by  ;  but  seeing  you,  1  am  almost  sorry. 

Capt.  Barton.     And  why  so,  my  friend  ? 

Pipes.  Because  I  see,  by  your  example,  what 
the  fruits  of  it  are.  If  I  am  wise  then,  shall  I  study 
to  make  soldiers  of  your  children,  that  they  may  be 
dismissed,  after  they  have  worn  themselves  out  in 
the  service  ? 

Capt.  Barton.    But  why  call  my  fortune  back 


244 


MILITARY    ACADEMY. 


to  remembrance,  since  I  myself  have  laboured  to 
forget  it,  and  complain  no  longer  of  what  you  sup- 
pose hard  usage. 

Pipes.  Please  your  honor  then,  I  will  complain 
for  both.  Bombs  and  cannons  !  is  it  not  a  shame  ! 
What,  turn  me  off  for  having  one  leg  less?  A  sol- 
dier is  always  fit  for  duty,  if  his  heart  and  his  head 
are  left  him.  If  they  think  that  we  cripples  make 
no  show  at  a  review,  why  let  them  keep  us  for  a  bat- 
tle :  we  will  be  put  into  a  corps  apart ;  we  won't 
even  condescend  to  mix  with  others.  No  affront  to 
your  Grenadiers  or  your  Light  Infantry,  we  will  be 
first  of  all,  1  warrant  you,  sir. 

Capt.  Barton.  Good  old  friend  !  how  much  I 
am  pleased  to  see  this  fire  of  youth  and  courage 
burning  still  within  you. 

Pipes.  I  am  quite  vexed  to  see  you  smile,  when 
you  should  storm  much  more  than  I  do.  1  am  a 
vulgar  dog  ;  I  am  nobody  ;  and  they  may  think  that 
they  ought  to  overlook  me,  having  lost  a  limb:  but 
you,  a  Captain,  who  have  had  so  many  wounds  in 
twenty  battles,  and  have  such  a  family  of  children, 
to  put  such  as  you  on  what  they  call  half-pay,  and 
send  him  off  without  a  pension!  who  can  think  of 
such  treatment  and  be  patient ! 

Capt.  Barton.  I  find  fault  with  no  one.  There 
are  others  more  unhappy.  (He  turns  to  Paul  and 
the  rest  who  seem  uneasy.)  My  good  children  you 
have  done  enough  this  morning  to  require  some  re- 
creation. Go,  then  ;  but  first  visit  your  mamma:  she 
is  in  her  chamber. 


MILITARY    ACADEMY.  245 

Children.  Yes,  papa  ;  aud  afterwards  we  will 
come  back  to  study. 

SCENE  III. 

Captain  Barton,  Pipes. 

Capt.  Barton.  My  old  friend,  I  am  pleased  with 
your  affection  ;  but  still  I  do  not  like  that  you  should 
speak  before  my  children  as  you  do.  I  would  not 
have  them  think  themselves  authorized  to  hate  their 
fellow-creatures  ;  such  a  notion  would  discourage 
them  in  their  pursuit  of  fortune  ;  and  besides,  they 
are  destined  to  acquire  themselves  a  reputation  by 
their  actions.  It  is  unlikely  that  they  would  take 
pains  for  such  a  purpose,  if  they  are  told  that  men 
merit  only  their  contempt1? 

Pipes,  {ironically.}  Yes,  yes ;  your  honor  has 
great  reason  to  defend  mankind,  they  have  respect- 
ed you  so  much  ! 

Capt.  Barton.  There  are  more  good  men  than 
wicked  men  about  us  ;  and  if  there  were  only  you, 
that  thought  would  reconcile  me  to  humanity. 

Pipes ,  {boioing.)     O,  Captain  ! 

Capt.  Barton.  You  have  been  so  willing  to  at- 
tach yourself  to  my  ill  fortune  !  and  besides,  you 
know,  I  am  indebted  to  your  friendship  for  the  pre- 
servation of  my  life. 

Pipes.  And  if  I  saved  it,  I  was  under  obligation 
to  do  nothing  less,  my  worthy  Captain,  for  your 
having  sent  me  to  the  drill  so  often.  Had  it  not 
been  for  your  honor,  Pipes  would  have  turned  out  a 
vagabond  and  drunkard,  like  many  others.  It  was 
21* 


946  MILITARY   ACADEMY. 

your  attention  that  made  a  man  of  me ;  I  should 
have  been  my  whole  life  long  a  common  soldier, 
had  you  let  me  grovel  on.  From  rank  to  rank  I 
have  been  promoted,  and  at  last  made  serjeant ;  and 
that  is  something,  every  one  will  grant  me  !  and  no 
inconsiderable  lift  towards  colonel.  But  a  plague 
upon  the  musquet-ball,  say  I,  that  to  my  heart  of 
oak  has  added  this  pine  leg  ! 

Capt.  Barton.  Come,  Pipes,  you  have  now  re- 
pose, and  that  is  as  good  as  honor  always. 

Pipes.  I  shall  never  have  repose  as  long  as  I 
observe  your  honor  ill  at  ease.  The  produce  of 
your  farm,  this  year,  has  failed,  and  I  am  now  be- 
come a  burthen  to  you. 

Capt.  Barton.  Can  a  child  become  a  burthen  to 
his  father  ?  And  pray,  are  you  not  as  one  among 
ray  children  ?  Thanks  to  heaven!  I  shall  be  always 
sure  of  a  subsistence.  If  our  ration  is  a  little  less, 
there  shall  still  be  an  equal  share  for  you,  Pipes. 

Pipes.  And  I  take  it ;  but  have  hopes  that  I  shall 
be  able  to  acknowledge  all  your  favors  handsomely, 
as  I  have  met  with  an  employment. 

Capt.  Barton.  So  much  the  better,  Pipes !  I 
am  charmed  to  hear  that  you  have,  for  your  sake. 
What  is  it  1 

Pipes.  Could  you  have  supposed  what  I  am  now 
going  to  tell  you  1  But  it  is  true,  sir,  that  a  hosier 
offered  me,  the  other  day,  employment  in  his  shop, 
if  I  would  knit  him  stockings. 

Capt.  B.  Very  good  :  at  least,  you  will  not  be 
idle  by  accepting  it. 

Pipes.   How,  sir,  very  good  ?  I  could  have  knock- 


MILITARY    ACADEMY.  247 

ed  the  fellow  down,  but  that  my  crutch  had  tum- 
bled on  the  ground. 

Capt.  B.  I  hope  this  knocking  people  down  is 
not  the  employment  that  you  mean  1 

Pipes.  It  would  be  better  far  than  what  the  ho- 
sier meant  to  give  me.  A  fine  sight,  indeed  !  Pipes 
knitting  like  a  woman  !  1  would  see  his  stock  of 
knitting-needles  at  Jericho  first ;  and  yet,  this  cir- 
cumstance made  me  think  a  little.  I  can  work,  it 
is  true,  said  I  to  myself;  so  I  went  to  Mr.  Wilkin- 
son's, and  told  him  that  I  would  furbish  up  his  old 
sword  blades,  if  he  would  but  employ  an  ancient 
soldier.  He  consented  :  so  that  I  shall  have  the 
handling  still  of  warlike  weapons,  and  beside,  re- 
ceive a  shilling  a  day.  Let  me  beg,  captain,  that 
you  will  accept  it  for  my  maintenance. 

Capt.  B.  No,  no,  my  friend  :  keep  what  you 
earn  yourself.  You  have  other  calls  for  money  : 
and-for  my  part,  I  want  nothing. 

Pipes.  Nothing  !  when  you  almost  live  on  bread 
and  water  ?  Nay,  now,  Captain,  you  are  far  too 
proud,  believe  me  ;  and  refuse  my  shilling,  for  no 
other  reason  than  because  I  am  not  your  equal !  A 
vengeance  on  this  wooden  leg  of  mine,  that  has  pre- 
vented me  from  being  a  colonel,  for  what  any  one 
can  tell ! 

Capt.  B.  You  do  not  know  me  yet,  I  can  see, 
my  friend  ;  for  were  I  to  accept  a  gift  from  any  one, 
it  should  be  only  from  the  king  and  you. 

Pipes.  What,  both  of  us  together  thus  !  and  in 
a  breath  ? 

Capt.  B.     My  king  is  but   my  master.     In  my 


248  MILITARY   ACADEMY. 

friend,  I  see  a  sort  of  god  :  and  you,  Pipes,  are  the 
only  friend  that  is  left  me. 

Pipes.  Well  then,  my  friend — Captain,  take  my 
shilling. 

Capt.  B.  I  have  already  told  you,  I  could  put  it 
to  no  use,  and  did  not  misinform  you ;  but,  on  sec- 
ond thoughts,  a  time  may  come,  when  I  shall  need 
a  great  deal  more.  Lay  by  as  much  as  you  can  save 
out  of  this  daily  shilling,  that  whenever  I  may  want 
your  savings,  you  may  then  assist  me. 

Pipes.  O,  I  understand  you.  Jt  is  for  my  sake, 
rather  than  your  own,  that  you  counsel  me  to  act 
thus  savingly.  No  matter  :  I  will  pursue  your  coun- 
sel literally ;  and  my  money  shall  be  sacred.  It 
shall  go  in  nothing  but  tobacco  ;  and  I  will  take  care 
how  I  get  into  a  passion,  that  1  may  not  break  my 
pipe. 

Capt.  B.  1  praise  your  resolution  ;  but  at  pres- 
ent go  and  smoke  one  to  the  honour  of  our  friend- 
ship. Mrs.  Barton,  I  observe,  is  coming ;  and  I 
wish  to  have  a  little  conversation  with  her  by  myself. 

Pipes.  Yes,  yes,  I  will  leave  you  ;  and  besides, 
a  little  air  will  be  of  service  to  me.  Your  discourse 
has  had  an  effect  upon  my  spirits.  I  shall  quickly 
be  composed  again. 

SCENE  IV. 

Capt.  Barton,  Mrs.  Barton. 

Mrs.  B.     What  circumstance  has  happened,  my 

dear  1  You  sent  the  children  to  me  ;  and  I  thought 

I  saw  upon  their  countenances  something  not  quite 

natural  to  them.     1  conceived  it  not  so  proper  to 


MILITARY    ACADEMY.  249 

ask  them  the  reason,  but  came  to  know  the  whole 
from  you.  Hide  nothing  from  me,  1  beseech  you  ! 
Has  any  new  misfortune  happened,  that  is  in  my 
power  to  lighten  by  giving  you  comfort'? 

Capt.  B.  No,  my  dear  !  With  your  assistance, 
I  can  bear  all  sorrows  ;  and  if  unforeseen  affliction 
were  to  come  upon  me.  would  not  hesitate  to  tell 
you  of  it,  after  the  experience  I  have  had  of  your 
philosophy  and  fortitude.  But  be  of  comfort !  noth- 
ing fatal  or  unfortunate  has  happened  ! 

Mrs.  B.  What  then  could  occasion  the  uneasi- 
ness that  I  noticed  in  their  countenances  ? 

Capt.  B.  Our  old  soldier  caused  it,  whose  ex- 
cess of  zeal  and  friendship  for  me  carried  him  so  far, 
while  they  were  present,  as  to  vent  complaints  con- 
cerning the  injustice  of  my  lot.  I  observed  that 
they  were  affected  by  the  strength  of  his  expres- 
sions ;  and  because  I  apprehended  such  invectives 
might  inspire  discouragement,  I  directed  them  to  go 
to  your  chamber  ;  so  that  Pipes'  murmurs  might  not 
make  a  bad  impression  on  them,  being  followed  in- 
stantly by  your  caresses. 

Mrs.  B.  Poor  things  !  they  know  not  what  a 
sad  coudition  they  are  to  experience  upon  earth  ! 

Capt.  B.  I  hope  their  fortune  will  not  be  so  la- 
mentable, as  your  affection  seems  to  fear  ;  for  hith- 
erto, at  least,  they  have  no  great  occasion  to  com- 
plain of  their  condition. 

Mrs.  B.  What,  ray  dear,  when  they  are  utterly 
deprived  of  all  the  advantages  that  they  might  rea- 
sonably have  expected  in  life? 

Capt.   B.     They  never  knew  them  ;    therefore 


250  MILITARY   ACADEMY. 

never  can  the  want  of  those  advantages  afflict  them. 
Possibly  they  might  have  only  served  to  soften  and 
unnerve  their  strength,  as  well  as  understanding. 
The  hard  life  to  which  they  have  been  used,  has 
given  them  a  robust  and  sound  constitution,  and  an 
energy  of  mind.  Instead  of  pursuing  frivolous  or 
puerile  amusements,  they  know  already  how  to  con- 
vert their  labor  into  pleasure.  If  God's  providence 
should  grant  them  any  of  the  gifts  of  fortune,  they 
will  therefore  yield  the  more  enjoyment ;  but  sup- 
posing they  are  all  decreed  to  pass  their  days  in  the 
privation  of  this  life's  conveniences,  they  will  have 
learnt  to  undergo  their  fortune  without  murmurs  or 
complainings.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  think,  my 
dear  1  I  do  not  look  on  the  condition  to  which  we 
are  destined,  as  so  very  lamentable  ;  for,  surrounded 
by  the  pleasures  of  the  world,  should  we  have  known 
those  tender  sentiments  for  each  other,  which  we 
certainly  have  learnt,  in  what  men  call  the  school 
of  adversity  1  Hurried  on  by  pleasure,  we  should 
each  have  gone  in  quest  of  friends  who  would  have 
left  us  in  adversity,  and  perhaps  aggravated  our 
afflictions  by  their  treachery  ;  while  now,  afflicted 
as  we  are,  we  are  convinced  that  we  have  it  in  our 
power  to  make  each  other  happy,  by  our  mutual 
friendship.  There  are  many  miserable  individuals 
in  the  world,  who  are  even  destitute  of  bread  to  eat ; 
we  have  never  experienced  such  want,  nor  stooped 
to  procure  our  bread  by  dishonour.  If,  as  is  the 
case,  we  are  necessitated  to  put  up  with  what  may 
certainly  be  called  a  very  common  diet,  that  our 
children  may  not  want  education — we  enjoy,  on  the 


MILITARY    ACADEMY.  251 

other  hand,  their  gratitude,  and  their  improvement 
in  knowledge.  We  are  conscious  that  we  have  neg- 
lected not  one  tittle  of  our  duty  to  them.  Every 
generous  notion  that  they  possess  is  our  work  :  it  is 
our  lessons  and  example  that  have  enabled  them  to 
possess  it.  They  will  do  no  laudable  or  virtuous 
action  in  their  future  lives  but  what  an  honest  pride 
will  permit  us  to  attribute  to  ourselves  ;  and  grant- 
ing that  any  among  them  should  be  raised  to  dis- 
tinction by  his  merit,  I  am  confident  he  will  not 
leave  us  in  old  age,  when  we  may  more  particularly 
waut  his  succor. 

Mrs.  JB.  O  my  dear  husband  !  how  does  your 
fortitude  sustain  me  ! 

Capt.  B.  On  the  contrary,  dear  wife,  it  is  your 
constancy  that  upholds  my  fortitude.  Without  sup- 
port, I  should  have  long  since  sunk  beneath  the  bur- 
then of  my  sorrows ;  but  seeing  you  renounce  the 
delicacy,  and  subdue  the  weakness  inseparable  from 
your  sex,  that  you  might  properly  discharge  your 
duty,  how  could  I  seem  less  firm  than  you  were, 
and  not  blush  at  being  called  a  man  ? 

Mrs.  B.  Ascribe  not  so  much  honour  to  me  for 
the  sacrifices  that  I  have  made.  They  must  be 
nothing  to  a  mother's  sensibility  :  and  I  would  make 
still  greater,  if,  on  such  conditions,  I  might  have  the 
prospect  of  happier  fortune  to  befal  my  children. 
But,  my  dear,  have  you  renounced  all  thoughts  of 
soliciting  your  friends?  Are  you  without  hope,  that 
such  solicitations  would   be  attended  with  success? 

Capt.  B.  You  know  the  issue  of  my  former  ap- 
plications.    If  then  I  experienced  nothing  but  deni- 


252  MILITARY    ACADEMY. 

als,  when  more  recent  services  spoke  for  me,  shall 
I  hope  a  better  fortune  now  ?  and  if  the  hollow 
hearted  friend,  who  then  deceived  me,  would  not 
second  my  just  expectations  with  his  influence, 
who  will  now  espouse  the  application  of  a  man  so 
many  years  forgotten  ?  My  very  silence  since  that 
period  would  be  urged  as  a  pretext  for  new  refusals, 
and  fresh  disappointments  but  re-open  wounds  as  yet 
not  quite  healed  up.  I  have  thrown  away  almost  my 
whole  dependence  to  procure  me  nothing  but  vexa- 
tion ;  I  shall  therefore  hardly  be  so  rash,  as  to  con- 
sume what  is  left  me  in  such  steps  as,  if  they  failed, 
would  end  in  desperation. 

Mrs.  B.     Desperation  ? 

Capt.  B.  Yes  ;  though  they  should  cost  me  no- 
thing but  the  time  that  I  must  purloin  from  the  in- 
struction of  my  children.  If  I  durst  have  any  hopes, 
and  should  again  be  disappointed,  I  am  convinced,  I 
could  not  possibly  survive ;  or  should  at  least  drag 
on  the  wretched  remnant  of  my  life  in  sorrow.  No, 
dear  wife  ;  let  us  not  imitate  those  parents,  who  im- 
agine that  they  have  done  enough,  in  yielding  some 
small  portion  of  their  superfluities,  and  that  too  with 
reluctance,  that  their  children  may  obtain  an  educa- 
tion. Let  us  prove  our  love,  by  dedicating  even 
our  necessaries  to  their  wants.  Let  us  consent  to 
live  on  bread,  if  such  a  sacrifice  be  needful,  that  in 
future  they  may  show  themselves  to  have  been  edu- 
cated in  a  manner  worthy  of  us. 

Mrs.  B.  And  I  trust  in  the  Almighty  that  they 
will  do  so  :  for  surely  we  have  not  given  life  to  mon- 
sters. 


MILITARY    ACADEMY.  253 

Capt.  B.  I  have  already  such  a  hope  concern- 
ing Edward.  Child  though  he  be,  yet  I  have  fre- 
quently remarked  his  depth  of  understanding,  open- 
ness of  temper,  and  ingenuous  way  of  thinking ; 
qualities  that  I  would  desire  to  find  in  my  friend, 
He  will  have  two  motives  for  seeking  advancement, 
and  those  such  as  operate  very  forcibly  on  noble 
minds  :  he  will  have  obstacles  to  overcome,  and 
thereby  so  much  the  more  glory  to  acquire.  With 
what  ardor  have  I  observed  him,  particularly  these 
'  two  years  past,  resign  himself  entirely  to  study,  and 
digest  the  greatest  difficulties  !  With  what  enthusi- 
asm has  he  been  seized  at  the  recital  of  some  glori- 
ous action  I  I  have  often  noted  him  retiring  in 
thought,  that  he  might  narrowly  examine  the  trans- 
actions both  of  Rome  and  Sparta,  and  observe  the 
infancy  of  the  mosi  celebrated  heroes.  In  a  search 
like  this,  no  wonder  that  the  achievements  of  a 
Cyrus  should  inflame  his  nature  to  resemble  him  in 
temperance,  fortitude  and  reputation.  On  the  whole, 
I  verily  believe  that  nothing  but  some  happy  cir- 
cumstance is  wanting,  to  proclaim  him  already,  what 
he  may  one  day  show  himself  to  be. 

Mrs.  B.  But,  my  dear,  in  such  a  situation  as  he 
is  doomed  to  be  at  present,  when  can  we  hope  that 
this  happy  circumstance  will  happen  1 

Capt.  B.  To  the  weak  man  it  can  hardly  ever 
happen  ;  a  great  heart  will  frequently  create  it. 
Yes,  my  Edward,  there  is  hardly  any  thing  that  I 
have  not  room  to  hope  from  you  ! 

vol.  2.  22 


254  MILITARY    ACADEMY. 

Enter  Paid,  Theodore,  Lucretia,  Isabel. 

Paul.  You  were  speaking,  I  believe,  papa,  about 
my  brother? 

Capt.  Barton.  True  ;  I  was  so,  Paul.  You  are 
sensible,  there  is  scarcely  a  moment  of  the  day,  in 
which  I  do  not  think  of  one  or  other  of  you. 

Isabel.     Have  you  had  any  letter  from  him  1 

Capt.  B.  Not  to-day  !  but  then  I  know  him,  my 
child,  so  well,  that  I  can  tell,  at  any  time,  what  he 
is  about,  without  his  writing  to  me.  For  example  : 
I  am  sure  that,  at  this  very  moment,  he  is  thinking 
to  afford  me  a  proof  of  his  affection,  by  a  diligent 
attention  to  his  studies.  Paul,  I  am  sure  his  good 
behaviour  will  be  serviceable  to  your  introduction, 
when  the  time  comes  that  you  must  go  to  school,  and 
have  the  same  instructer. 

Paul.  And  for  my  part,  as  I  am  to  go  before 
Theodore,  I  will  do  every  thing  in  my  power  to  in- 
troduce him  likewise,  with  the  same  degree  of 
credit. 

Capt.  B.  T  was  sure  that  you  would  have  made 
me  such  a  promise.  In  your  present  situation,  my  , 
dear  little  fellows,  destitute  as  you  are  sensible  you  j 
are,  of  wealth  and  patrons,  your  advancement  in  the 
world  must  be  at  first  entirely  owing  to  yourselves, 
since  it  depends  upon  the  efforts  you  will  make,  at 
all  times  to  excel  each  other.  And  what  is  more, 
the  elevation  of  all  three  may  be  the  happy  conse- 
quence of  good  behaviour  in  one  only  :  as  the  bad 
behaviour  of  one  only  may  involve  the  other  two, 
and  be  a  bar  to  their  good  fortune.  So  that  you 
may  see,  on  one  hand,  what  disgrace,  and,  on  the 


MILITARY    ACADEMY.  255 

other  hand,  what  honour,  may  be  expected  from  the 
turn  of  your  conduct. 

Paul.  But,  papa,  you  know,  we  heard  Pipes  say 
just  now  that  you  had  not  been  recompensed  for 
your  services? 

Thodore.  I  am  sure,  however,  you  were  never 
found  deficient  in  your  duty. 

Isabel.  So  pray  tell  us  why  the  king  has  for  so 
many  years  forgot  you? 

Capt.  B.  Possibly,  because  there  have  been  so 
many  to  reward,  much  worthier  than  myself ;  or 
else,  because  the  expenses  of  his  government  pre- 
vent his  generosity :  besides,  I  have  neglected,  for 
along,  long  time  indeed,  all  applications  to  his 
justice,  that  the  time  which  they  would  have  taken 
up  might  be  better  employed  upon  your  education. 
But  when  once  you  enter  into  public  life,  you  will 
be  able,  by  a  proper  conduct  on  your  part,  to  turn 
his  royal  eye  upon  your  father  ;  and  if  so,  I  shall 
enjoy  his  benefits  twice  over. 

Paul.     O,  if  it  depends  upon  my  conduct 

Theodore.  What !  and  shall  we  then  be  able  to 
repay  you  every  thing  that  you  have  done  on  our 
account  ?  ■ 

Capt  B.  Yes  ;  and  to  the  full.  I  will  not  raise 
the  value  of  those  sacrifices  which  your  good 
mother  and  myself  have  made  to  your  instruction. 
We  have  constantly  submitted  to  them  unrepi- 
ningly,  and  even  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  Provi- 
dence already  recompenses  us,  by  planting  in  your 
hearts  the  promise  of  those  virtues  that  will  gratify 
our  hopes.     But  if  you  were  in  future  to  deceive 


256  MILITARY    ACADEMY. 

us,  and  conduct  yourselves  in  such  a  manner  that 
the  fruit  of  all  our  sacrifices  would  be  lost,  what 
then  would  be  the  dismal  consequences  ?  your  poor 
sisters  brought  to  poverty  !  your  mother  in  despair ! 
and  my  grey  hairs  descending  to  the  grave  with 
sorrow ! 

Paul.     No  ;  it  never  shall  be  so. 

Theodore.  And  therefore,  if  you  love  us,  be 
assured,  we  shall  do  every  thing  in  our  power  to 
make  you  happy. 

Capt.  B.  My  existence  totally  depends  upon 
you  ;  and  through  you  I  am  to  live  or  die. 

Paul.  In  that  case,  you  will  live  while  we  have 
one  single  drop  of  blood  within  us. 

Theodore.  We  will  rather  die  a  thousand  times, 
than  willingly  dishonor  you. 

Capt  B.  Well,  I  receive,  my  children,  this  as- 
surance in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  and  can  have 
nothing  else  to  wish.  I  shall  be  indebted  to  you 
for  the  greatest  happiness  that  is  to  be  enjoyed  in 
this  world. 

Luc.  O  papa,  how  badly  off  are  we,  who  can- 
not by  our  conduct  make  you  happy  ! 

Capt.  B.  You  may  make  my  happiness  still 
greater,  by  so  acting  in  this  retirement,  as  to  occa- 
sion me  the  permanent  and  tranquil  joys  peculiar 
to  a  father.  What  will  there  be  wanting  to  my 
happiness,  if,  while  your  brothers  honour  my  old 
age  by  their  laudable  actions,  you,  together  with 
your  sister,  comfort  it  with  your  attention,  and 
adorn  it  with  your  virtues  ?  What  additional  fe- 
licity can  I  entreat  of  Heaven,  if  I  but  live  to  see 


MILITARY   ACADEMY.  257 

you  merit  the  distinction  gained  you  by  the  fame 
and  glory  of  your  brothers  1  (He  takes  Mrs.  Bar- 
ton by  the  hand.)  Dear  wife  !  can  you  imagine 
what  would  be  our  transports  at  so  fair  a  prospect, 
when  both  joy  and  honour,  caused  by  each  of  those 
to  whom  we  have  given  birth,  should  fill  up  our 
dwelling ! 

Paul.     You  say  nothing,  dear  mamma  ! 

Luc.     You  weep  ! 

Mrs.  B.  It  is  for  joy,  my  children.  I  was  in- 
dulging myself  in  the  happiness  which  your  father 
has  just  described. 

Paul.  O,  we  promise  that  we  will  do  our  ut- 
most not  to  disappoint  you.  And  as  for  Edward,  I 
will  answer  for  him  just  as  he  himself  would,  were 
he  present.    (31rs.  B.  affectionately  embraces  them.) 

Enter  Pipes,  rushing  all  at  once  into  the  room. 

Pipes.     O  my  worthy  captain  ! 

Capt.  B.     What  is  the  matter ! 

Pipes.     I  have  seen  him — he  is  returned  ! 

Capt.  B.     Returned  ? — who,  Pipes  ? 

Pipes.  He,  sir  ;  my  best  friend  !  the  only  friend 
I  have  !  except  indeed,  your  honour  ! 

Capt.  B.     Edward,  do  you  mean  1 

Mrs.  B.     My  son  1 

Paul.     My  brother  1 

Luc.  and  Isa.     Where — where  is  he  ? 

Theo.     O  my  dearest  Pipes,  is  Edward  coming  ? 

Pipes.  Do  you  ask  me,  when  I  have  told  you  ? 
Why,  he  almost  beat  me  backward,  throwing,  as 
he  did,  his  arms  about  my  neck.  The  excellent 
22* 


258  MILITARY   ACADEMY. 

young  man  !  still,  still  the  same  !     He  is  coming 
after  me.     I  hear  him  on  the  stairs. 

Mrs.  B.  But  why  does  he  return  1  O,  heaven  ! 
he  has  been  only  ten  days  absent !  Is  it  possible, 
that— 

Capt.  B.  (interrupting  her.)  What  !  suspect 
my  Edward  !  This  is  the  first  reason  for  displeas- 
ure that  you  have  ever  caused  me  ! 

Mrs.  B.  Pardon  my  uneasiness  !  And  yet,  what 
are  we  to  suppose  on  this  occasion  1 

Capt.  B.  Any  thing,  or  every  thing,  much  rather 
than  imagine  that  he  has  done  amiss. 
Enter  Edward. 

Edward,  (springing  to  his  father.)  My  dear, 
dear  father  1  how  rejoiced  I  am  to  see  you  ! 

Capt.  B.  My  dear  Edward  !  is  it  you  ? — What 
can  be  the  reason  of  your  coming  back  so  unex- 
pectedly 1 

Edward.  It  is  mentioned  in  this  paper.  Read, 
read,  read  !  (He  gives  a  paper,  and  then  runs  up 
to  his  mother.)  My  dear  mamma  !  you  will  be  very 
happy  !  (He  returns  to  his  brothers  and  sisters  and 
salutes  them.)  And  how  are  you,dearest  Isabel,  and 
Lucretia  ? — and  you,  Paul  and  Theodore  ?  You 
were  far  from  expecting  to  see  me  so  soon,  were 
you  not  ?  However,  you  will  be  glad  of  my  return, 
when  you  know  the  reason  of  it. 

Isa.  O,  we  are  glad  already,  without  know- 
ing it. 

Edw.  I  had  drawn  up  a  letter  yesterday  for  my 
papa,  with  good  news  in  it,  and  the  promise  of 
much  better  :   but  my  master  being  then  on  the 


MILITARY    ACADEMY.  259 

point  of  setting  out  for  London,  on  the  subject  of 
that  better  news,  thought  proper  to  detain  the  let- 
ter :  and  succeeding  in  the  object  of  his  journey,  it 
was  instantly  determined  that  I  should  come  myself 
this  morning  ;  which  was  full  as  well,  I  fancy  :  was 
it  not  ? 

Luc.     O  certainly. 

Capt.  B.  What  is  this  !  A  pension  of  three 
hundred  pounds  a  year,  the  king  allows  me  ! 

Mrs.  B.     Is  it  possible  1 

Pipes.     Bombs  and  cannon  !  if  it  were  but  true  ! 

All  the  Children.     How,  how,  papa  ? 

Capt.  B.  There,  read  the  whole  yourself,  dear 
wife. — And  who  is  the  generous  man  who  has  thus 
condescended  to  enumerate  my  services  in  presence 
of  the  king,  when  every  one  beside  him  had  aban- 
doned me  ?  The  king  then  knows  that  I  have  not 
served  him  without  some  degree  of  honour  !  O  my 
prince  !  I  could  certainly  have  been  happy,  though 
deprived  of  your  munificence,  but  not  of  your  es- 
teem. Dear  Edward  !  who  has  been  my  benefac- 
tor ? 

SCENE  THE  LAST. 
(Edward    rims  out  hastily,  and  very  soon  returns. 

bringing  in  his  master  by  the  hand.) 
Captain  Barton,  Mrs.   Barton,  Paul,  Theodore,  Lu- 

cretia,  Isabel,  Pipes,   Echcard,  the  Master  of  the 

Military  School.  Hhigenius. 

Echcard.  Here  is  our  friend,  and  second  father. 
See  here  too,  my  brother  Eugenius.  A  new  son, 
for  you  and  my  mamma. 

Master.     Pardon   me,  sir,  that  I   have  been  so 


260  MILITARY   ACADEMY. 

free  as  to  intrude  upon  you  without  leave  :  I  was 
not  willing,  I  confess,  to  Jose  the  affecting  scene  to 
which  I  am  witness  at  present. 

Copt.  B.  You  may  well  expect  the  liberty  of 
being  witness  to  it,  since  it  is  all  of  your  creation. 

Mrs.  B.  And  has  wherewithal,  no  doubt,  to 
gratify  your  benevolent  heart. 

Master.  I  am  indeed  most  happy,  madam,  to 
perform  a  character  therein,  though  not  the  hero. 
It  is  to  Edward,  to  your  son,  that  the  honor  of  that 
character  appertains. 

Mrs.  B.     To  Edward  ! 

Capt.  B.     To  my  son  1 

Master.  You  had  deprived  yourself  of  every 
comfort  in  this  life,  that  you  might  form  his  heart 
and  understanding ;  and  on  his  part  he  deprived 
himself  of  his  enjoyments,  to  evince  the  gratitude 
that  he  owed  you.  Pardon  me,  good  sir,  if  I  ap- 
pear acquainted  with  the  secrets  of  your  family. 
Your  son  has  not  betrayed  them.  It  was  I  who 
read  them  in  his  bosom.  Ever  since  his  first  com- 
mencement with  us,  he  would  take  no  sustenance 
but  bread  and  water.  All  our  menaces  were  not 
sufficient  to  procure  an  explanation  of  his  motives 
for  such  abstinence ;  and  by  insinuation  only  did 
I  come  to  know  it.  He  resolved  to  be  no  happier 
than  his  father,  who  denied  himself  so  many  things 
on  his  account.  We  spoke  about  you,  and  I  learn- 
ed your  situation.  I  have  had  no  other  merit  than  j 
causing  intimation  of  it  to  be  made  to  our  good 
sovereign  ;  but  your  name,  it  seems,  was  in  his  re- 
collection ;  and   he    said,    as   I   was  told,  that  he 


MILITARY    ACADEMY. 


261 


thought  himself  quite  happy,  in  the  means  of  re- 
compensing as  he  did,  your  ancient  services,  as 
well  as  the  care  that  you  took  in  bestowing  such  an 
education  on  your  children,  as  must  render  them 
the  most  valuable  of  his  subjects.  The  worthy 
nobleman,  who  mentioned  your  affair  to  his  majes- 
ty, even  told  me,  that  in  saying  these  words,  he 
shed  tears. 

Capt.  B.  O,  sir,  forgive  the  weakness  of  na- 
ture. I  had  strength  sufficient  to  endure  misfor- 
tunes ;  but  not  half  enough  to  bear  such  joy  !  My 
son  !  my  dearest  Edward  !  are  you  capable  of  such 
generous  affection  to  your  father  1 

Edward,  Pardon  me  :  I  have  but  for  a  moment 
done  in  your  behalf,  what  you  have  been  doing 
for  so  many  years,  on  my  account.  (He  turns  to- 
wards his  mother.)  My  dear  mamma  !  do  not  die,  I 
beseech  you,  now  that  you  are  rich. 

Master.  Edward,  you  remember  that  I  also 
mean  to  be  your  father  1 

Edward.  O,  yes ;  always,  always  !  So  papa, 
embrace  Eugenius  my  new  brother  !  we  have  vow- 
ed for  ever  to  love  one  another. 

Eugenius.  Yes  ;  and  I,  on  my  side,  never  shall 
forget  my  promise. 

Master.    I  have  been  so  free,  sir,  as  to  bring  him 

with  me  to  your  house,  that  he  might  contemplate 

the   virtues  that  flourish  here.     He  has  read  the 

[heart  of  Edward  many  days  before  myself;  and  he 

it  was  who  first  of  all  desired  his  friendship. 

Capt.  B.     If  you  give  him  thus  a  friend,  in  the 


262  MILITARY    ACADEMY. 

person  of  my  son,  I  ought  to  find  another  for  my- 
self in  the  person  of  his  father. 

Master.  I  can  wish  for  nothing  with  such  ar- 
dor, as  T  do  such  a  title  ;  and,  on  my  part,  offer  you 
my  pledge  of  friendship.  (Holding  out  his  hand.) 

Pipes.  I  can  be  no  longer  an  indifferent  looker 
on  !  (he  lets  fall  his  crutch,  and  rushes  in  between 
them.)  Excuse  me,  sir  ;  but  where  my  captain  gives 
his  heart,  mine  also  must  go  with  it.  You  are  a 
generous  man  !  were  you  not,  Pipes  would  never 
flatter  you  by  calling  you  so. 

Capt.B.  You  will  pardon,  sir,  the  bluntness  of 
a  soldier:  he  is  full  of  honour,  and  this  mark  of  his 
affection  for  me,  cannot  be  a  matter  of  indifference 
to  you.  It  has  been  my  consolation  under  many 
sorrows. 

Master.  Say  you  so  1  then  I  take  his  affection 
in  good  part.  Your  hand,  comrade ;  for  soldiers 
are  all  brothers. 

Pipes.  O  my  other  good  supporter,  where  are 
you  now  1  But  I  will  dance  without  you  at  the 
thought  of  such  a  happy  day. 


THE    DIRTY    BOOTS. 

Fortunatus,  proud  of  his  high  birth,  was  not 
content  with  inwardly  despising  every  one  inferior 
to  himself  in  point  of  fortune,  but  presumed  to  take 
such  airs  upon  him  as  showed  the  scorn  with  which 
he  viewed  them.  As  it  chanced,  one  day  he  saw  his 
father's  footman   cleaning  shoes.        Pho  !    what   a 


i 


DIRTY    BOOTS.  263 

filthy  business  !  cried  he,  as  he  passed  him,  turning 
up  his  nose:  for  all  the  world  I  would  not  be  a 
shoe-black, — Very  likely,  said  John  ;  and  I,  for  ray 
part,  hope  that  I  shall  never  be  your  shoe-black. 

All  the  last  week's  weather  had  been  very  bad, 
but  now  it  was  grown  clear  and  bright  ;  on  which 
account  young  Fortunatus  received  his  father's  per- 
mission to  take  a  ride  on  horseback.  Now  the 
promise  of  this  ride  afforded  him  the  greater  pleas- 
ure, as  the  day  before,  when  he  was  out,  he  had 
been  hindered,  by  a  heavy  shower  of  rain,  from 
going  far.  However,  he  had  been  far  enough  to 
splash  his  boots  from  top  to  bottom,  and  they  were 
not  yet  quite  dry. 

Transported  with  the  thoughts  of  his  ride,  he  ran 
down  to  John,  who  was  at  breakfast  in  the  kitchen, 
and  with  an  imperious  tone  of  voice,  cried  out, 
"John,  John!  I  am  going  out  on  horseback!  Run 
and  clean  my  boots  !  do  you  hear  me  ?"  John 
pretended  that  he  did  not,  and  continued  at  his 
breakfast  quite  composed.  In  vain  Fortunatus  put 
himself  into  a  passion,  and  called  him  an  hundred 
names.  John  contented  himself  with  answering 
him  very  calmly,  "  I  have  told  you,  sir,  already,  if 
you  recollect,  that  I  hoped  never  to  become  your 
I    shoe-black." 

In  the  mean  time  Fortunatus,  seeing  he  could 
not,  in  spite  of  all  his  menaces,  prevail  upon  John 
to  do  as  he  desired,  returned  quite  full  of  rage,  and 
made  complaint  about  him  to  his  father.  Mr  Rail- 
ton  could  not  comprehend  why  John  refused  a  bu- 
siness that  belonged  to  his  employment,  and  which 


264  ^jfl  DIRTY    BOOTS. 

hitherto  he  had  performed  without  expecting  orders 
for  that  purpose  ;  so  he  sent  to  speak  with  him  a 
little,  and  was  told  of  the  affair. 

His  conduct  was  fully  approved  by  Mr.  Railton, 
who  not  only  blamed  his  son,  but  told  him  that  he 
might  go  and  clean  his  boots  himself,  or  stay  at  home 
whichever  he  thought  proper.  He  forbad  the  other 
servants  to  assist  him  in  his  business.  li  You  will 
learn,  sir,  (added  he)  how  silly  it  is  to  look  with 
scorn  on  services  that  contribute  to  our  comfort  or 
convenience  ;  services,  the  rigour  of  which  you 
should  rather  strive  to  soften,  by  a  gentleness  of 
manners  in  yourself.  Therefore,  since  a  shoe-black's 
trade  is  so  disgraceful,  be  so  kind  as  to  enoble  it,  by 
being,  for  the  future,  your  own  shoe-black." 

Such  a  sentence  turned  his  promised  pleasure  into 
sorrow.  He  was  very  eager  for  a  ride  on  horse- 
back, it  was  such  fine  weather ;  but — to  clean  his 
boots  himself!  he  could  not  stoop  to  such  an  office. 
On  the  other  hand,  his  pride  would  not  permit  him 
to  go  out  with  dirty  boots,  in  which  case  every  one 
he  met  would  ridicule  him.  He  applied  succes- 
sively to  every  servant  in  the  house,  with  offers  of 
money  to  corrupt  them  ;  but  not  one  could  be  per- 
suaded to  disobey  his  master's  order.  Thus,  then, 
Fortunatus  was  obliged  to  stay  at  home,  till  in  the 
end  his  pride  permitted  him  to  stoop  so  low  as  the 
conditions  laid  upon  him.  On  the  next  day  John 
resumed  his  office  without  bidding  ;  and  the  hum-  y 
bled  Fortunatus,  having  exercised  it  once,  would 
never  afterwards  gratify  his  pride,  by  vilifying  what 
was  in  itself  so  useful. 


I 


VOL.  2 


•23 


AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER. 


MRS.    TORRINGTON     PARTING    FROM    HER    CHILDREN. 


267 


THE  AFFECTIONATE  MOTHER, 


LETTER    I. 

TO    MRS.    TORRINGTON. 
MADAM, 

This  address,  perhaps,  will  cause  you  some 
surprise  ;  or  possibly  you  may  have  looked  for  such 
a  greeting.  I,  for  my  part,  find  it  necessary  ;  and 
of  course,  without  farther  preface,  pass  to  the  sub- 
ject which  extorts  this  letter  from  me. 

You  may  well  remember,  there  was  a  time  when 
I  sincerely  loved  you,  and  when  you  appeared  to 
merit  my  affection.  That  time  is  now  past.  You 
have  found  an  object  worthier  of  your  love  than  I 
am  ;  and,  since  you  act  upon  the  idea  of  promo- 
ting your  felicity  by  such  a  preference,  I  do  not 
wish  to  thwart  you.  We  are  free.  Do  you  retire 
where  you  think  fit,  while  I  live  where  I  please  ; 
and  that  is  here.  1  grant  you  a  week's  time  to 
make  your  choice.  I  go  away  to-morrow  morning, 
-and  shall  stay  from  home  till  Monday  next,  that 
you  may  not  be  incommoded  with  my  presence,  or 
endure  that  trouble,  of  which  it  does  not  suit  me  to 
be  a  witness. 

.  Respecting  our  three  children,  you  may  be  at 
peace  on  their  account.  Their  mother,  after  her 
behaviour,  must  no  longer  have  the  least  commu- 
nication with  them  :    and  whenever  I   think  fit  to 


268  AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER. 

make  inquiry,  I  shall  find  some  governess  who  will 
not  be  wholly  unqualified  to  bring  them  up  accord- 
ing to  their  station. 

Receive  for  ever  my  adieu.  Enjoy  in  peace 
your  new  condition,  and  endeavour,  as  much  as 
possible,  to  blot  out  the  remembrance  of  that  man, 
who  formerly  was  proud  to  subscribe  himself  your 
loving  husband,  but  is  now  no  more  than,  &c. 

ARTHUR  TORRINOTON. 

LETTER  II. 
TO  MR.  TORRINGTON. 
SIR, 

I  should  in  vain  endeavour  to  describe  the  diffe- 
rent emotions  raised  in  my  soul,  by  the  perusal  of 
your  letter.  You  resolve  that  a  separation  shall 
take  place  betweeaCus.  Since  you  judge  an  open 
rupture  needful,  I  submit  to  your  good  pleasure. 
If,  when  we  were  first  united,  any  one  had  told  me 
that  all  our  mutual  vows  would  come  to  this,  I 
should  certainly  not  have  been  persuaded  that  such 
an  event  was  possible.  Nevertheless,  it  has  taken 
place.  In  my  misfortunes,  however,  I  have  still 
one  consolation  left  ;  namely,  that  in  heaven  there 
is  a  God,  who  has  the  means  of  manifesting  inno- 
cence. My  conscience  clears  me  of  reproach.  My 
heart  has  no  idea  of  an  object  worthier  of  me,  as 
you  say,  than  you  are.  It  has  always  been  devoted 
to  you  only.  I  protest  all  this,  not  making  use  of 
oaths,  but  a  simple  affirmation,  which  my  heart 
pronounces  with  assurance.  1  will  make  no  effort 
to  convince  you  of  my  innocence  and   of  your  in- 


AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER.  269 

justice.  I  shall  patiently  pursue  the  path  which 
God's  providence  points  out  to  me — God's  provi- 
dence, I  say,  which  has  hitherto  heaped  its  bless- 
ings upon  me  ;  and,  I  hope,  will  still  continue  so 
to  do. 

It  is  a  cruel  step,  sir,  to  take  all  my  children 
from  me.  I  must  think,  the  mother,  who  first  gave 
them  birth,  has  a  greater  title  to  them  than  a 
father  ;  and  the  laws  would  grant  me  the  society 
of  one,  at  least  :  but  do  not  imagine  that  I  have 
such  a  doubt  of  your  paternal  tenderness  and  wish 
to  make  them  happy,  as  to  have  recourse  to  legal 
aid  against  you.  I  will  with  resignation  imagine, 
that  God's  will  has  torn  them  from  me  by  death, 
or  that  I  am  dead  myself, and  shall  be  very  quickly 
followed  by  them. 

Farewel,  and  be  at  all  times  happy,  most  unjust, 

yet  dearest  husband.     Every  night  and  morning  I 

will  pray  to  God  that,  for  your  own  repose,  he  may 

remove  the  mist  of  error  from  before   your  eyes, 

convincing    you   how   faithful   and   affectionate  a 

wife   you  are   at  present  wronging,  in  the  person 

of  your  desolate  amelia  torrington. 

•  •  •  • 

SCENE  I. 

Mrs.  Torrington,  Harriet,  Sophia,  and   Caroline. 

Harriet.     Here  we  are,  mamma. 

Mrs.  Torrington.  Come  hither,  my  dear  children. 
Sit  down  by  me  ;  I  have  something  to  tell  you. 

Caroline.  Take  me  on  your  knee,  do,  pray, 
mamma.  ( Mrs.  T.  takes  up  Caroline  and  weeps.) 
23* 


270  AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER. 

Harriet.  What  is  the  matter,  dear  mamma  1 
why  do  you  cry  ? 

Sophia.  I  have  done  nothing,  at  least  that  I 
know  of,  to  displease  you. 

Car.     Nor  I  either,  dear  mamma. 

Children  (while  the  mother  cannot  speak  for 
tears.)     Mamma  !  dear,  dear  mamma  ! 

Mrs.  T.  Do  not  be  uneasy,  my  sweet  children, 
I  beseech  you.  Do  not  cry  thus,  or  you  will  cer- 
tainly distract  me. 

Harriet.  Then  why  did  you  cry  yourself  first  1 
Why  did  you  weep  so  yesterday  ?  the  day  before  1 
and  every  day  since  you  received  my  papa's  last 
letter  ! 

Mrs.  T.  Do  not  ask  me,  my  poor  girl  !  You 
will  know  all  soon  enough.  All  that  I  can  tell  you 
at  present,  my  dear  children,  is,  that  I  am  forced 
to  leave  you  to-morrow  morning  early. 

Sophia.  And  do  not  you  intend  then  to  take  me 
this  time,  as  I  was  promised  1  Harriet,  you  re- 
member, went  with  you  last  year. 

Mrs.  T.  I  wish  I  could,  my  life  ;  and  not  you 
only,  but  your  sisters  also  ;  it  is  not,  however,  in 
my  power. 

Harriet.  At  least,  mamma,  I  hope  you  mean 
to  return  very  soon. 

Sophia.  And  will  you  bring  me  something  very 
pretty  ? 

Caroline.     And  me  too  ? 

Harriet.  What,  sisters  !  can  you  see  how  sad 
mamma  is,  and  yet  think  of  asking  her  for  play- 
things ?     If  I  durst — 


AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER.  271 

Mrs.  T.     Well  1  what,  my  dearest  Harriet  ? 

Harriet.  You  will  never  come  back  to  us.  I 
know  it.  You  are  always  sorrowful  when  you  quit 
us  ;  but  yet  you  never  wept  so  much  as  now,  when 
you  were  going  on  a  little  journey. 

Mrs.  T.  Do  not  alarm  yourself,  Harriet.  In 
about  six  weeks  I  shall  come  back  and  see  you. 

Sophia.  In  about  six  weeks  !  and  what  are  we 
to  do,  so  long,  without  you  ? 

Caroline.  I  can  never  play  so  well,  you  know, 
mamma,  as  when  you  are  with  me. 

Mrs.  T.   Your  papa  will  come  back  next  Monday. 

Harriet.  And  not  find  you  here  then,  to  receive 
him  ! 

Sophia.  He  will  be  very  sorry,  when  he  comes, 
to  find  you  absent. 

Caroline.  So  pray  stay  at  least  till  he  comes  back. 

Mrs.  T.  It  will  but  give  him  greater  pleasure,  at 
the  time  of  my  return,  to  see  me  ;  and  six  weeks 
will  soon  be  past. 

Harriet.  You  will  not  inform  us  ;  but  I  know 
very  well  that  papa — 

Mrs.  T.  Dear  child,  you  wound  my  heart ;  and 
I  have  grieved  enough  already,  at  the  thought  of 
parting  with  you.  Pray  be  comforted.  We  shall 
see  each  other  again  very  soon.  Receive  this  kiss 
as  an  assurance. 

Harriet  [clinging  round  her  neck.)  Oh,  if  it 
were  true  ! 

Mrs.  T.  When  six  weeks  are  once  past,  you 
will  see.  I  promise  you,  and  you  know  I  never  yet 
deceived  you.    Take  care  of  your  health,  dear  girls, 


272  AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER. 

and  study  to  amuse  yourelves  till  I  return.  (She 
embraces  them.)  Harriet  and  Sophia,  you  that  are 
the  eldest,  take  what  care  you  can  that  nothing 
happens  to  poor  little  Caroline.     Think  frequently 

of  me,  and  I  will  do  so  of  you. Farewel,  fare- 

wel  I     (She  forces  herself  from  them,  and  goes  out. 


LETTER    III. 
TO    MRS.    VILLARS. 
DEAR  AND  WORTHY  FRIEND, 

I  send  you  my  three  girls,  and  earnestly  conjure 
you  to  bestow  your  tenderest  care  upon  them,  so 
that  they  may  find  a  second  mother  in  you.  After 
the  deplorable  event  that  has  deprived  them  of  the 
mother  who  first  gave  them  life,  I  look  upon  it  as 
a  special  blessing  that  you  so  generously  conde- 
scend to  superintend  their  education.  I  am  sensi- 
ble how  great  a  burthen  I  wish  you  to  undertake, 
and  how  utterly  unable  I  shall  ever  be  to  show  my 
gratitude  for  such  a  favour.  But  then  what  will  not 
a  father  dare  for  his  children  1  Condescend, there- 
fore, my  dearest  madam,  for  this  reason,  to  pardon 
any  paternal  indiscretion,  and  dispose  for  ever  both 
of  me  and  every  thing  belonging  to  me. 

There  is  one  particular  which  I  cannot  sufficient- 
ly recommend  to  your  attention  ;  namely,  the  se- 
lection of  a  proper  governess.  Endeavour  to  se- 
cure one  who  accords  with  your  principles  and 
mine.  There  are  few,  madam,  fit  for  any  thing 
but  dressing  and  undressing  dolls  !  and  rather  than 
deliver  up  my  children  to  such  creatures,  I  would 


AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER.  273 

leave  them  in  a  wilderness,  to  vegetate,  without  re- 
ceiving any  education.  But  as  souls,that  afterwards 
prove  worthy  of  each  other, have  a  sort  of  reciprocal 
attraction,  by  a  secret  sympathy  subsisting  between 
them,  I  am  not  without  the  hope  that,  in  so  elegant 
a  place  as  Bath,  you  will  at  least  be  able  to  pro- 
cure some  lady  of  suitable  behaviour,  with  sense 
and  knowledge  sufficient  to  bring  up  my  children 
as  I  wish.  I  beg  that  you  will  consider  yourself 
at  liberty  to  enter  into  any  terms  with  such  a  one 
as  you  think  proper,  since  I  mean  to  spare  no  cost 
upon  a  point  of  such  importance. 

I  am  quite  impatient  for  a  letter  from  you.  It 
would  highly  please  me,  if  you  would  charge  my 
eldest  daughter  Harriet  with  some  part  of  the  cor- 
respondence that  will  pass  between  us  ;  as  by  such 
means,  she  will  early  learn  to  write  correctly,  and 
to  express  herself  with  ease.  It  is  in  your  power 
to  render  more  supportable  the  great  misfortune 
that  I  have  undergone,  and  to  give  me  in  my  chil- 
dren all  the  joy  of  which  their  mother  has  deprived 
me.  In  reality,  I  cherish  such  a  hope,  to  drive 
away  the  uneasiness  that  otherwise  would  over- 
whelm me  ;  and  subscribe  myself,  with  every  sen- 
timent of  gratitude,  esteem,  and  friendship, 

Yours,  &C.  ARTHUR  TORRINGTON. 


SCENE  II. 

enny  the  \ 
footman. 
Crape  (entering.)     Here  is  my   lady    Harbord's 
answer  to  your  letter,madam,with  her  compliments. 


SCENE  II. 

Mrs.  Torrington,  Jenny  the  maid,   and  Crape  her 

footman. 


274  AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER. 

Mrs.  T.  That  is  well.  Is  Benjamin  in  the 
house  1  Bid  him  come  up  :  and  come  you  with 
him  likewise. 

Mrs.  T.  [having  read  the  letter.)  Thank  heav- 
en !  I  have  succeeded. — (To  her  maid)  Hold, 
Jenny  :  it  is  meant  for  you. 

Jenny  [reading.)  "  I  am  quite  happy,  madam, 
to  receive  the  chambermaid  that  you  recommend. 
One,  of  whom  you  speak  so  very  handsomely,  must 
be  a  valuable  servant  ;  and  1  thank  you  for  the 
preference  that  you  have  afforded  me  on  this  occa- 
sion. She  may  come  whenever  she  thinks  fit." 
(Giving  back  the  letter  with  a  trembling  hand.) 
Alas,  my  dear  mistress  !  what  have  I  done,  that 
you  send  me  away  ?  In  what  have  I  deserved 
dismission  ? 

Mrs.  T.  You  have  not  deserved  it,  Jenny.  You 
have,  at  all  times,  been  a  dutiful  girl  ;  and  if,  here- 
after, Providence  should  otherwise  dispose  my  lot, 
I  will  have  none  but  you  to  wait  upon  me.  But  at 
present,  it  is  impossible  that  you  should  longer 
continue  with  me.  We  must  absolutely  part.  Be 
comforted  ;  it  will  not  be  long,  I  persuade  myself, 
before  I  come  back.  I  would,  till  then,  have  given 
you  wherewithal  to  live,  but  that  I  feared  the  danger 
that  might  threaten  your  youth  and  inexperience. 
You  will  be,  with  Lady  Harbord,  no  less  happy 
than  you  were  with  me,  and  I  have  recommended 
you  to  her  protection  in  a  very  earnest  manner. 
Take  this  little  present  as  a  token  of  remembrance. 
There  is  likewise,  in  the  bottom  drawer  of  my 
bureau,  a  quantity  of  clothes  and  linen,  which  I 


AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER.  MiO 

give  you.  Go,  Jenny,  and  do  not  cry  thus.  My 
eyes  have  enough  of  tears  already.  Go;  and,when 
you  have  put  all  your  things  together,  I  will  see 
you  once  more. 

Jenny.  And  must  I  quit  you  then,  my  dearest 
lady  ?  I  cannot  live  away  from  you  ;  I  will  follow 
you  wherever  you  are  going. 

Mrs.  T.  Let  me  beg,  dear  Jenny,  if  you  love  me, 
not  to  hurt  my  mind  at  present  with  your  lamenta- 
tions :  leave  me  to  myself.  I  want  to  be  alone.  I 
have  already  mentioned  that  I  would  see  you  once 
again  before  we  part. 

Jenny  (going  out.)     My  worthy  mistress   ! 

Enter  Benjamin,  her  coachman,  and  Crape,  her 
footman. 

Benjamin.  Do  you  want  me,  madam  ?  Are  you 
going  out  this  morning  ? 

Mrs.  T.  Wait  a  little,  Benjamin. — Crape,  how 
much  may  be  owing  to  you  1 

Crape.     Only  a  quarter,  madam. 

Mrs.T.  There  it  is,  besides  a  half  year  more  ; 
that  you  may  have  a  trifle  for  your  subsistence  till 
you  find  another  place,  as  my  affairs  will  oblige  me 
to  leave  home.  I  have  been  pleased  with  your 
behaviour  in  my  service,  and  have  drawn  up  this 
character,  which  you  may  show,  wherever  you  may 
apply  for  employment.  You  are  young  and  know 
your  business,  and  will  easily  procure  a  place. 
Farewel,  and  God  be  with  you. 

(  The  footman  sorrowfully  leaves  the  room. 


276  AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER. 

Benjamin.  I  would  fain  believe,  madam,  that 
my  turn  is  not  coming  1 

Mrs.  T.  It  is  with  great  reluctance  I  inform 
you  that  we  must  part. 

Benjamin.  What,  I  leave  you,  madam  1  I,  that 
saw  you  almost  as  soon  as  you  were  born,  and  fol- 
lowed you,  when  you  were  married,  from  your 
father's  !  I  whom  you  considered  a  part  of  your 
dowry,  and  declared  that  you  did  so  ;  will  you  send 
me  off  when  1  have  been  so  many  years  your  ser- 
vant 1  Do  you  think  me  less  attached  to  you  at  pres- 
ent on  account  of  my  age,  than  I  was  formerly  1 
Alas  !  I  have  no  wife  nor  child.  I  have  no  friend 
but  you,  my  dearest  mistress  !  what  will  become  of 
me,  if  I  must  now  be  parted  from  you  1 

Mrs.  T.  Benjamin,  you  may  easily  believe 
me,  when  I  tell  you  that  this  parting  cannot  but  af- 
flict me.  But  you  see,  I  have  dismissed  my  maid 
and  footman,  and  you  may  judge,  I  cannot  have  oc- 
casion for  ,a  coachman. 

Benj.  Cannot  have  occasion  !  Are  my  master's 
affairs  in  confusion  then  ?  I  have  wherewithal  to  feed 
your  horses  many  years  to  come — your  bounty  gave 
it  me.  Pray,  then,  let  me  die  in  my  seat,  and  still 
continue  with  you. 

3Irs.  T.  Such  a  proof  of  your  attachment  can- 
not but  affect  me,  and  I  feel  it  at  my  heart ;  but  be 
comforted.  Your  master  manages  his  fortune  as  a 
man  of  prudence  should  do  ;  and  his  wife  is  not  in 
want  of  any  thing  :  in  proof  of  which,  I  give  you 
my  three  horses,  and  a  trifle  every  year  for  your 
support. 


** 


AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER.  277 

Benj.  What  me,  so  much,  my  dear  mistress? 
What  use  can  I  make  of  your  bounty  ?  I  should  but 
die  the  sooner,  after  I  had  it.  in  grief  for  having  lost 
the  worthy  giver.     Never,, therefore,  never 

Mrs.  T.  I  insist  on  your  acceptance  of  it,  for  my 
own,  though  not  your  satisfaction.  I  would  wil- 
lingly be  happy  at  the  thought  of  having  given  you 
peace  and  comfort  for  the  rest  of  your  old  age.  Go 
then,  my  friend  :  you  will  distress  me,  should  you 
stay  a  minute  longer. 

Benj.  Let  me  wish  you  then  at  least,  a  thousand 
blessings.  I  am  old ;  yet  were  I  younger,  should 
not  have  sufficient  time  to  weep  for  having  lost  you. 

SCENE  III. 

Mrs.  Villars,  Mrs.  Torrington,  in  disguise,  under 
the  feigned  name  of  Lambert. 

Mrs.  T.  Pardon  me,  madam,  the  liberty  of  this 
intrusion.  I  have  been  informed  that  you  desire  a 
governess  for  three  young  ladies.  Though  1  am  far 
from  thinking  that  I  have  all  the  necessary  qualifica- 
tions for  such  an  arduous  undertaking,  yet  my  situ- 
ation induces,  me  to  beg  that  you  would  have  the 
goodness  to  make  trial  of  me. 

Mrs.  V.  May  I  ask  you,  madam,  who  you  are. 
and  your  name  ? 

Mrs.  T.  Lambert,  madam  ;  I  am  the  unhappy 
widow  of  a  man  whom  I  loved,  and  still  love  better 
than  myself.  In  the  affliction  that  besets  me,  I 
should  look  upon  it  as  a  consolation,  could  I  fill  up 
my  time  with  the  education  of  your  young  ladies ; 

vol.2.  24 


, 


278  AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER. 


I  conjure  you,  madam,  to  bestow  this  favor  on  me, 
if  you  have  not  yet  engaged  any  one.  I  dare  per- 
suade myself  you  will  be  satisfied  with  my  solicitude 
to  please.  I  desire  no  salary,  I  am  above  the  possi- 
bility of  want.  It  is  only  employment  that  I  re- 
quest, to  drive  away  the  thought  of  my  misfortunes. 

Mrs.  V.  So  affecting  is  your  motive,  that  it  in- 
terests me  in  your  favour.  You  have  then  no  chil- 
dren, madam  ? 

Mrs.  T.  I  had  three,  that  constituted  all  my 
hope  and  satisfaction  ;  but,  alas !  cruel  fortune  has 
deprived  me  of  them. 

Mrs.  V.  I  sincerely  pity  you  !  You  seem  a  very 
tender  mother ;  and  deserve  that  they  should  have 
lived  to  recompense  your  feeling  and  affection. 

Mrs.  T.  Ah,  madam  !  they  are  still,  still  living. 
But,  on  that  account  (however  strange  my  story) 
not  less  lost  to  me. 

Mrs.  V.  I  cannot  comprehend  you,  madam ; 
either  your  affliction  has  impaired  your  understand- 
ing, or  you  stifle  iu  your  heart  some  very  great  mis- 
fortune. Would  you  fear  to  trust  me  with  it  ?  Pos- 
sibly, I  might  be  able  to  afford  you  some  consola- 
tion. 

Mrs.  T.  Yes,  madam ;  you  only  can  afford  me 
consolation. 

Mrs.  V.  What !  I  only  ?  Let  me  know  then 
what  I  can  do  for  you  ?  There  is  nothing  that  I 
would  not  with  cheerfulness  perform  to  comfort  you. 

Mrs.  T.  Then  make  me  governess  of  your 
young  ladies. 

Mrs.   V.     Is  that  all? 


AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER.  279 

Mrs.  T.  I  can  have  nothing  else  to  ask  ;  but 
what  I  ask  will  make  me  happy,  if  you  grant  it. 

I\Jrs.  \r.  I  cannot  express  my  astonishment  at 
what  you  say.  All  this  conversation  is  in  some  sort 
like  a  vision.  Though  you  do  not  think  me  worthy 
of  your  confidence,  I  feel  a  desire  to  give  you  mine. 
1  will  bring  in  the  three  young  ladies.  Will  you  un- 
dergo a  slight  examination  of  your  abilities  to  dis- 
charge the  employment  you  solicit?  If,  as  I  have 
not  a  doubt,  you  justify  the  idea  that  I  have  formed 
concerning  them,  I  promise  to  intrust  you  with  their 
education. 

Mrs.  T.  O  my  noble  benefactress  !  then  I  have 
your  promise  ? 

Mrs.  V.  Yes,  madam  ;  but  on  such  conditions  as 
I  mentioned. 

Mrs.  T.  Madam,  I  desire  no  better;  and  thank 
Heaven  and  you  I  have  again  recovered  my  three 
children ! 

Mrs.  V.  Your  three  children,  madam  !  What 
three  children  ? 

Mrs.  T.  Those  that  you  have  undertaken  to 
protect,  the  three  Miss  Torringtons.  You  see  be- 
fore you  their  unhappy,  but  guiltless  mother,  whom 
her  husband  has  parted  from  them.  I  have  left  my 
property  behind  me,  and  disguised  my  name  and 
circumstances,  to  procure  an  introduction  to  my 
children.  I  was  fearful  of  discovering  who  I  was, 
till  I  had  obtained  your  promise.  I  am  sensible 
my  husband  has  written  to  you  about  something 
which  he  imagines  I  have  done  amiss  :  but  yet,  I 
dare  persuade  myself,  my  present  conduct  has  al- 


280  AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER. 

ready  proved  how  innocent  I  must  be  of  his  accusa- 
tion. A  good  mother  cannot  surely  be  a  wicked 
wife  ! 

Mrs  V.  [embracing  her.)  O  most  affectionate, 
and  courageous  woman!  1  want  words  to  show 
my  joy  and  admiration.  Could  it  possibly  have 
come  into  my  head,  that  Mrs.  Torrington  was  hid 
beneath  this  sorrowful  disguise  ? 

Mrs.  T.  The  metamorphosis  has  not  been  pain- 
ful to  me  ;  and,  in  future,  I  am  seriously  determined 
to  support  it.  No  one,  madam,  except  yourself, 
shall  ever  be  acquainted  who  I  am.  Confide  upon 
my  promise.  By  whatsoever  you  conceive  most 
sacred,  not  a  word  shall  ever  escape  me,  to  reveal 
the  secret. 

Mrs.  V.  And  on  my  part,  1  promise  the  same 
discretion.     But  your  daughters  1 

Mrs.  T.  I  shall  find  it  a  hard  task,  indeed,  to 
keep  myself  a  stranger,  as  it  were,  to  them,  and  to 
suppress  the  workings  of  my  motherly  affection  : 
But  no  other  way  is  left  me.  Only  aid  me  while  I 
personate  my  part.  As  soon  as  the  deception  is  once 
established,  it  will  support  itself.  I  should  be  quite 
without  anxiety  on  that  head,  if  it  were  not  for  my 
eldest  daughter,  Harriet.  She,  I  am  afraid  will 
know  me.  I  must  persevere,  however,  in  the  pious 
imposition. 

Mrs.  V.  I  can  bear  no  longer  this  scene,  but 
will  be  gone  and  bring  in  the  children.  (She  goes 
out,  and  almost  instantly  returns,  ?vith  Harriet  and 
her  sisters ;  who   all  curtsey  to  Mrs.    Torrington, 


AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER.  281 

considering  her  with  great  attention  and  embarrass- 
ment.) 

Mrs.  V.  My  dear  little  girls,  it  is  to  let  you  see 
this  lady,  whom  I  have  chosen  to  be  with  you, 
as  your  governess.  I  dare  engage  you  will  be 
happy  under  her.  I  think  [  may  assure  you  of  her 
care  and  friendship  ;  and  expect  that  you,  on  your 
part,  will  obey  and  love  her,  just  as  if  you  thought 
her  your  mamma. 

Harriet,  [falling  into  her  arms.)  It  is  our  mam- 
ma!  It  is  she  herself! 

Sophia  and  Caroline.  Mamma!  mamma!  You 
are  returned  then  1  ( They  all  cling  to  her,  but  she 
keeps  up  a  reserved  and  serious  countenance.) 

Mrs.  V.  Truly,  I  was  thinking  that  you  would 
all  be  much  deceived.  I  had  myself  the  same  idea 
of  the  lady  ;  I  fancied,  1  know  not  for  what  reason, 
that  she  was  your  mamma. 

Har.  And  so  she  is  ;  my  heart  informs  me  so, 
as  truly  as  my  eyes. 

Soph.     And  have  you  brought  me  any  thing? 

Car.  Ay,  where  is  the  doll  that  you  promised 
me,  mamma  ?  Pray  let  me  have  it. 

Mrs.  T.  My  dear  little  ladies,  I  am  sorry  to  see 
you  all  in  such  an  error.  You  know  that  your  moth- 
er is  a  great  way  off. 

Har.  No,  no  ;  you  are  our  dear  mamma.  We 
cannot  be  deceived.  You  have  not  such  a  charming 
dress  as  she  wears,  but  then  you  have  her  face,  and 
her  shape,  and  her  sweet  voice. 

Mrs.  T.  Is  it  possible  that  I  should  resemble 
24* 


282  AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER. 

your  mamma  so  much  ?  If  so,  I  am  very  glad,  on 
your  account,  as  well  as  my  own  :  it  will  make  us 
so  much  better  friends :  will  it  not,  young  ladies  ? 
I  dare  say  you  begin  to  love  me  a  little  already, 
don't  you? 

Soph.     O!  much,  much,  mamma. 

Car.     And  I  too.     If  you  did  but  know — 

Harriet,  [weeping.)  What  have  we  done,  mam- 
ma, that  you  should  grieve  us  thus  1  that  you  should 
tell  us  you  are  not  our  mother  ?  Yet,  however,  we 
are  all  of  us  your  children. 

Mrs.  V.  Come,  good  madam,  you  must  be  what 
they  would  have  you  ;  and  since  they  resolve  to  call 
you  mother,  take  that  name  upon  you;  it  will  give 
them  pleasure.  And,  young  ladies,  if  you  like  it, 
you  may  call  me  mother  likewise. 

Har.  We  do  not  wish  to  affront  you,  but  though 
you  love  us,  you  can  never  be  our  mother. 

Mrs.  T.  Well,  my  dear  young  ladies,  if  you  wish 
to  make  me  your  mamma,  I  wish  it  likewise  ;  and 
will  have  as  much  affection  for  you,  as  if  I  really 
were  so.  My  dear  Harriet,  and  my  dear  Sophia, 
and  my  dear,  sweet,  little  Caroline.  (Site  embraces 
them  with  transport.) 

Har.  How  happy  we  all  are,  in  having  our 
mamma  again!  we  thought  continually  of  you,  in 
your  absence  :  and  did  hardly  any  thing  but  cry 
since  you  first  left  us. 

Mrs.  T.  {whispering  Mrs.  V.)  I  foresaw  that 
Harriet  would  discover  me ;  and  therefore  I  must 
make  her  of  my  party,  by  discovering  ray  intention 


AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER.  283 

to  her.     Then  take  away  her  sisters  for  a  moment,  if 
you  can. 

Mrs.  V.  {whispering  Mrs.  T.)  Yes,  I  understand 
you.  (  To  Sophia  and  Caroline.)  Come,  my  little 
ones,  I  will  let  you  have  the  play-things  that  your 
mamma,  as  you  would  have  her  called,  has  brought 
you.     {She  goes  out  with  Sophia  and  Caroline.) 

Mrs.  T.  We  are  now  alone,  my  dear  Harriet ; 
I  may  indulge  the  happiness  that  I  feel  in  pressing 
you  to  my  heart. 

Harriet,  {falling  into  her  arms)  Ah,  now  you 
are  my  good  mamma  indeed.  But  pray  never,  for 
the  future,  tell  us  that  you  are  not. 

Mrs.  T.  Be  it  so,  my  dearest  Harriet :  but  there 
is  one  thiug  I  insist  on,  in  my  turn. 

Har.     O  any  thing  in  the  world,  mamma. 

Mrs.  T.  Then,  if  you  love  me,  Harriet,  do  not 
tell  any  one  that  I  am  your  mother.  Call  me  only 
Mrs.  Lambert;  you  understand.  It  is  of  the  great- 
est consequence  to  my  affairs  ;  and  for  a  reason, 
which  I  have  not  time  to  tell  you  now.  it  is  neces- 
sary that  I  should  be  unknown. 

Har.  How,  would  you  have  me  cease  to  call 
you  my  mamma  ?  you  that  I  love  so  much? 

Mrs.  T.  And  do  you  think  that  my  love  consid- 
ers it  less  painful,  to  deny  myself  the  only  name, 
which  can  at  all  times  make  me  happy  ? 

Har.  Well  then,  I  obey  ;  but  every  time  it  comes 
not  from  my  lips,  when  I  am  speaking  to  you,  sup- 
pose me  to  pronounce  it  in  my  heart. 


84  AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER. 

LETTER    IV. 

To  Mr.  Torrington. 
Dear  Papa, 
I  have  so  many  things  to  write  to  you,  that  I  can- 
not tell  with  which  I  should  begin  my  letter.  We 
are  no  longer  at  Mrs.  Villars's,  but  have  removed  to 
Mrs.  Lambert's,  our  governess'  house  ;  it  is  in  the 
Circus,  and  a  very  pleasant  situation.  You  cannot 
possibly  conceive  how  happy  we  are  all  of  us  in 
being  with  her.  She  is  such  a  charming  woman  ! 
quite  as  kind  as  our  mamma !  She  loves  us  just  as 
if  we  were  her  children,  and  we  love  her  also  just 
as  if  she  were  our  mother  !  There  is  no  need  of 
sending  your  money  to  have  masters  come  and 
teach  us  ;  she  knows  every  thing  that  we  ought  to 
learn.  You  would  imagine  she  considered  it  her 
happiness  to  teach  us  ;  and  she  does  it  in  so  kind  a 
way,  that  we  are  all  delighted  with  her  instruction. 
Sophia  and  little  Caroline  already  read  quite  charm- 
ingly, so  much  attention  Mrs.  Lambert  has  paid 
them  !  As  for  me,  I  have  begun  a  course  of  geog- 
raphy and  history  with  her:  this,  with  a  little  cy- 
phering, and  a  few  choice  pieces  in  verse  and  prose, 
which  I  take  care  to  learn  by  heart,  employs  our 
morning.  In  the  afternoon,  for  recreation  sake,  I 
go  to  drawing,  dancing,  and  the  piano  ;  and  when 
evening  comes,  take  my  needle,  at  the  use  of  which 
you  cannot  imagine  how  clever  Mrs.  Lambert  is  ; 
and  lastly,  to  complete  myself  in  cyphering,  and 
acquire  a  little  knowledge  of  the  expenses  of  a 
house,  she  gives  me  all  the  bills  to  overlook,  and 
makes  me  set  down  every  little  sum  of  money  that 


AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER.  285 

she  expends.  By  these  means  I  begin  to  know  the 
price  of  many  things,  and  as  she  tells  me,  may  be- 
come your  little  stewardess  when  I  return.  With 
so  much  on  my  hands  to  do  all  day,  you  will  per- 
haps imagine  that  I  am  tired  at  night ;  not  at  all, 
papa.  I  am  happy,  on  the  contrary,  to  think  that 
I  have  so  well  rilled  up  my  time,  and  should  have 
reason  to  complain,  if  any  one  deprived  me  of  such 
charming  occupations. 

I  have  put  a  little  trick  on  Mrs.  Lambert,  and 
mean  to  tell  you  what  it  is.  She  went  the  other 
day  with  Caroline  to  visit  Mrs.  Villars,  and  left  me 
at  home  with  Sophia.  I  thought  it  would  divert  her 
if  I  read  a  little ;  so  I  took  a  book  that  we  have, 
called  the  Theatre  of  Education,  from  the  French, 
and  read  the  Poor  Blind  Woman.  I  could  not  re- 
frain from  crying  very  much  ;  but,  to  my  great  sur- 
prise, Sophia  did  not.  This  quite  vexed  me,  as 
you  mc<y  easily  imagine  ;  upon  which  I  pinched  her, 
that  she  might  cry  and  keep  me  company.  She 
cried  indeed,  and  more  a  great  deal  than  I  wanted 
her  to  do.  At  last,  however,  I  appeased  her,  after 
many  kisses  and  caresses,  but  was  angry  with  myself 
for  having  hurt  her.  I  suppose,  some  object  took 
off  her  attention  while  I  reat',  and  naturally  thought 
that  she  would  be  really  affected,  could  she  read  the 
piece  herself  ;  with  this  idea,  I  formed  a  plan  of 
putting  her  to  con  this  charming  piece  in  private,  till 
she  could  read  it  perfectly ;  aud  Mrs.  Lambert  could 
not  refrain  last  night  from  wondering  at  the  progress 
that  she  had  made.  We  did  not  let  her  know  our 
secret,  but  purpose  to  catch  her  so  again  with  Caro- 


286  AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER. 

line.  I  am  quite  rejoiced  that  we  can  have  these  op- 
portunities of  pleasing  her,  for  all  the  trouble  that 
she  is  every  moment  taking  upon  our  account. 

These,  dear  papa,  are  our  amusements  and  our 
studies  ;  to  which,  if  you  add  our  walks  about  the 
place,  our  visits  to  a  few  poor  people  near  us,  whom 
we  now  and  then  assist  with  clothes  and  money,  and 
our  labors  in  a  little  garden,  where  we  tend  our  flow- 
ers, you  will  have  the  history  of  our  time  at  large. 
We  never  were  so  well  in  health  as  now,  and  never 
so  happy;  we  want  nothing  but  the  pleasure  of 
your  company.  If  you  would  only  take  a  journey 
down  to  Bath,  I  would  give  every  thing  in  the  world 
that  you  might  see  this  Mrs.  Lambert.  I  am  sure, 
no  woman  breathing  would  prove  worthier  of  your 
friendship.     O  come,  come,  papa  ! 

But  you  must  know,  I  have  Caroline  at  present  at 
my  elbow,  and  she  asks  me  if  I  am  writing  to  you. 
She  is  so  prond  of  having  scrawled  these  few  days 
past  what  she  calls  letters,  in  a  copy-book  that  Mrs. 
Lambert  has  made  her,  that  she  says  she  too  will 
scribble  you  a  line  or  two.  It  will  be  a  charming 
hodge-podge,  I  foresee,  of  great  and  little  letters, 
and  fine  spelling,  if  she  sets  about  it  ;  but  no  matter, 
I  must  please  her.  She  has  got  a  pen  in  hand  al- 
ready, and  is  groping  in  the  standish  for  ink.  She  is 
tugging  me  this  very  moment  by  the  apron  to  leave 
off,  and  give  up  my  seat.  Adieu,  then,  dear  papa. 
My  governess  desires  me  to  present  you  her  re- 
spects. Sophia's  duty  to  you,  and  mine  also.  I 
am,  &c. 

Harriet   Torringtqn. 


AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER.  287 

LETTER    V. 

To  Mr.  Torrington. 
Sir, 
You  certainly  remember  what  you  have  often 
said  you  would  submit  to,  if  a  woman  could  be  found 
completely  fit  to  undertake  the  education  of  a  child, 
except  it  were  her  mother.  I  have  met  with  one, 
whose  qualities  are  even  greater  than  your  wishes, 
for  the  education  of  your  children  ;  and  with  justice 
I  might  claim  the  full  performance  of  your  promise, 
and  expect  that  you  should  set  out  for  Bath  upon 
your  head.  However,  lay  aside  your  fears  ;  I  will 
not  abuse  my  power,  but  show  you  no  less  mercy 
than  the  confidence  that  you  have  reposed  in  me. 
T  claim  one  sole  condition  of  you,  or  request  rather, 
as  a  friend,  and  that  is,  to  come  down  as  soon  as 
possibly  you  can.  Do  not  ask  what  reason  I  have 
for  this  abrupt  request,  as  you  shall  know  it  when  you 
are  here.  You  have  only  to  set  out,  and  that  im- 
mediately, unless  you  wish  me  to  repent  that  I  have 
taken  such  concern  in  your  affairs.  Yours,  faith- 
fully. HORTENSIA    VlLLARS. 

P.  S.     Harriet  begs  me  to  inclose  ray  note  within 
her  letter,  so  that  you  may  read  hers  first. 


LETTER    VI. 

To  Mrs.  Hilars. 
My  dear  and  valued  Friend, 
I  pay  obedience  to  your  letter  and  leave  town  im- 
mediately as  you  enjoin  me  ;  so  that  this  reply  will 


288  AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER. 

not  have  reached  you  six  hours  before  you  see  me* 
In  reality  I  wish  to  have  it  go  beforehand,  and  in 
some  sort  spare  my  tongue  the  shame  of  revealing 
what  it  is  to  tell  you.  Shall  I  even  have  sufficient 
courage  thus  to  let  you  know  my  situation  ?  but  the 
case  is  urgent ;  and  I  merit  my  humiliation.  Well, 
then,  know,  madam,  I  have  shown  myself  the  most 
unjust  and  cruel  of  all  husbands  !  I  have  dared  to 
disparage  the  unspotted  virtue  of  my  Amelia  with 
my  scandalous  suspicions  ;  of  my  Amelia,  I  repeat, 
whose  very  looks  I  am  unworthy  now  to  meet.  It 
was  when  I  most  insulted  her  that  she  was  most  stu- 
dious to  preserve  my  name  from  ignominy.  One  of 
my  relations,  a  young  man  whom  I  patronized,  was 
on  the  point  of  being  utterly  disgraced  among  his 
brother  officers,  for  certain  youthful  levities  which 
he  durst  not  communicate  to  me,  acquainted  as  he 
was  with  my  impatient  temper.  It  was  she  who, 
with  the  fruits  of  her  economy,  delivered  him  from 
the  dishonour  that  he  was  going  to  bring  both  upon 
himselfand  me.  She  had  sufficient  strength  of  mind 
to  bear  with  my  unworthy  treatment  and  aspersions, 
rather  than  expose  him  to  my  indignation  by  re- 
vealing his  delinquency.  I  have  discovered  very 
recently  this  motive  for  those  secret  interviews  that 
so  disturbed  my  mind,  and  now  am  lamenting  with 
remorse,  my  detested  jealousy.  But  how  shall  I 
endure  her  presence  ?  At  her  feet,  I  will  implore 
her  pardon.  I  am  posting  to  that  quarter  where  she 
has  fixed  her  retirement  :  fortunately  I  must  pass 
through  Bath  to  reach  it.  I  shall  see  you  by  the 
way,  and  kiss  my  almost  orphan  little  ones.     Fare- 


AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER.  289 

well !  I  dare  not  sign  a  name  which  my  jealousy  has 
made  so  criminal. 

SCENE  IV. 

Mrs.  Villars?  Mr.  Torrington,  Harriet^  Sophia, 
Caroline. 

Har.  So,  papa,  you  are  pleased  with  what  we 
have  told  you  ? 

Soph.    And  think  us  very  much  improved  ? 

Mr.  T.  Yes,  my  children,  I  am  charmed  with 
every  thing  1  have  seen  ! 

Car.  As  well  as  with  the  little  letter  of  my  wri- 
ting ?     Was  it  not  quite  pretty  1 

Mr.  T.  Admirable  !  like  yourself,  my  little  Car- 
oline !  But  where  is  your  worthy  governess  1  I  wish 
to  see  and  thank  her. 

Mrs.  V.  I  see  her  coming  this  way.  We  will 
leave  you  with  her.  Come,  my  dears,  come  with 
me.     She  goes  out  with  the  children. 

Enter  Mrs.  Torrington. 

Mr.  T.  (advancing  towards  her.)  Madam,  let  me 
ask  your  pardon  ! — But — whose  features  do  I  see? — 
Who  is  this  ? 

Mrs.  T.  Well,  sir,  what  causes  this  confusion  ? 
Are  you  surprised  that  I  have  the  care  and  educa- 
tion of  your  children  1 

■  Mr.  T.  Surprised  !  Nothing  in  you  ever  should 
have  made  me  wonder,  had  I  but  deserved  the  hap- 
piness of  knowing  you. — My  Amelia ! 

vol.  2.  25 


290  AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER. 

Mrs.  T.  Why  bestow  that  name  on  me  1  I  have 
put  it  off. 

Mr.  T.  You  have,  indeed  ;  and  therefore,  kneel- 
ing at  your  feet,  I  shall  implore  you  to  resume  it. 

Mrs.  T.    What  would  you  do,  sir  1 

Mr.  T.  If  you  would  not  behold  me  die, — one 
word;'— one  single  word! — one  of  those  sweetly 
sounding  accents  that  were  wont  to  make  me 
happy  ! 

Mrs.  T.  Well,  then,  dearest  husband,  come  to  the 
embrace  of  your  Amelia,  who  still  loves  you. 

Mr.  T.  It  is  too  much  ! — Too  much  !— I  ask 
not  for  such  a  blessing  ! — Tell  me  only  that  you  have 
ceased  to  hate  me. 

Mrs.  T.  It  should  be  my  punishment  to  ask  your 
pardon,  could  such  hatred  ever  come  into  my  heart. 
Speak  only  of  my  happiness :  I  think  of  nothing  in 
the  world  but  yours.  Come,  then,  and  let  us  be 
happy  in  the  conversation  of  our  children. 


LETTER    VII. 

To  Mrs.  Villars. 
Dear  Madam, 
I  leave  Bath  with  every  sense  of  gratitude  that 
the  services  which  I  have  experienced  from  your 
friendship  inspire,  and  fly  to  London,  where  I  mean 
to  furnish  a  new  house  for  my  Amelia.  She  will 
follow  me  some  few  days  hence,  and  bring  the  chil- 
dren with  her.  I  hope  you,  madam,  will  also  come 
and  take  your  portion  in  the  happiness  you  have  re- 
stored to,  &c.  Arthur  Torrington. 


AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER.  291 

LETTER    VIII. 

My  Dear  Husband, 
Instead  of  seeing  me  or  any  of  the  children,  you 
will  have  a  letter  full  of. tears  and  lamentation.  On 
the  day  after  your  departure,  Harriet  and  Sophia 
complained  of  being  feverish,  and  were  attacked 
with  such  a  head  ache  that  they  could  not  possibly 
keep  up.  We  put  them,  therefore,  instantly  to  bed. 
Towards  evening,  Caroline  made  the  same  com- 
plaint. All  three  are  now  quite  covered  with  a  very 
thick  small-pox,  of  such  a  sort  as  I  am  told  is  very 
virulent.  I  must  forget  that  I  never  had  this  dread- 
ful malady  myself.  All  night,  as  well  as  day,  I 
keep  my  station  by  their  bed,  and  every  moment 
fear  they  will  be  suffocated.  I  have  felt  already  a 
lassitude  and  heat  in  every  limb  !  but  my  affection 
makes  me  stronger  than  I  should  be  otherwise. 
Their  love  and  tenderness  sustain  my  courage.  I 
perceive  that,  in  the  height  of  all  their  sufferings, 
they  refrain,  as  much  as  possible,  from  complaint, 
for  fear  of  giving  me  uneasiness.  In  the  delirium 
of  their  fever,  they  pronounce  your  name  and  mine, 
with  tones  of  voice  so  moving,  that  I  cannot  express 
them  ;  and  no  earlier  than  this  very  morning,  Car- 
oline desired  to  see  you.  I  replied  that  I  could  not 
send  to  London  for  you,  lest  you  should  catch  her 
illness.  "  O,  no,no,  mamma,"  said  she,  "  do  not  be 
afraid,  I'll  keep  it  all  myself !"— "  My  child,"  re- 
plied I,  "you  might  communicate  the  infection  to  him, 
without  losing  it  yourself." — "  So  much  the  worse," 
said    Caroline,    and   fainted    with    weakness;    but 


292  AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER. 

soon  after,  coming  to  herself,  she  called  me,  saying, 
"  Dear  mamma,  you  have  the  picture  of  papa  about 
your  neck ;  pray  let  me  kiss  it !  There  is  no  fear,  I 
suppose,  that  this  will  catch  the  small-pox  from  me." 

Dearest  children!  should  1  lose  you!  Should  I 

perhaps 1  see  about  me  the  presages  of  a  dread- 
ful separation  ! — Arm  yourself  with  resolution,  my 
dear  husband  !  our  life  in  this  world  is  but  for  a 
a  moment.  Harriet  is  afraid  lest  my  letter  should 
afflict  you,  and  requests,  with  tears,  that  I  would 
permit  her  writing  something  to  console  you.  I  am 
fearful  such  an  effort  may  exhaust  her,  but  more 
fearful  to  afflict  her  by  a  refusal  ;  I  am,  therefore 
giving  her  my  letter,  and  her  trembling  hand  writes 
this  : 

My  Dear  Papa, 

u  We  are  all  three  extremely  ill;  but  yet  that  is 
nothing,  so  do  not  grieve  yourself.    I  hope — n 

She  cannot  write  another  word.  I  find  my 
strength  forsake  me  too.  I  am  seized  all  over  with 
pain.  I  hear  Sophia  groan,  and  must  go  to  her  suc- 
cour. Farewell,  dearest  friend  !  Take  hope  ;  or 
arm  yourself  with  fortitude  of  mind  in  this  distress, 
as  possibly  it  may  be  needful.  But  particularly, 
SFhetker  life  or  death  ensue,  love  always,  your 

Amelia  Torrington. 


AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER.  293 


LETTER    IX. 

To  Mr.  Torrington. 
Dear  Friend, 
How   shall   I   express  the   melancholy   news  of 
which  you  must  be,  notwithstanding  its  unwelcome- 
ness,  acquainted!  Try  to  divine  the  matter;  for  my 
trembling  hand  hesitates  to  write  it.     Caroline  still 
lives  :  but  Harriet  and  Sophia — they,  alas  !  are  in  the 
land  of  spirits.     Your  unhappy    wife,  as  you  may 
easily  suppose,  was  overwhelmed  beneath  this  two- 
fold loss;  for  grief  and  watching  so   depressed  her, 
that  the  infection  which  she  received   soon  brought 
her  to  the  last  extremity.     Believe  me,  my  dear 
friend,  I   would   have  bought  her  life,  could   I  have 
done  so,   with   the   half  of  mine  !   But  what  avail 
these  empty  wishes  1  I  can  keep  the  fatal  secret  no 
longer.     At  this   moment  they  are  tolling  for  her 
funeral.     She   was  unable  to   survive   her  children 
many  hours.     Though  you   had   flown  to  see  her 
once  again,  you    certainly  would  not   have  known 
her,    so    much   had   the  violence    of   the    disorder 
changed  her  features  !  I  was  with  her  constantly.    I 
did  not  leave  her  bed    a  moment.     I  received  her 
parting  sighs,  and  closed  her   eyelids.     It  was   alto- 
gether such  a  scene  as  will  forever  live  in  my  mind. 
I  shall  find  it  difficult  to  represent  her  fortitude  and 
resignation  to   God's  will.     It   was  not   for  herself 
that  she  sorrowed  :  her  last  words  were  a  fervent 
supplication  in  behalf  of  Caroline  and  you.      What 
consolation  can  I  give  you  for  her  loss,  of  which  my 
25* 


1294  AFFECTIONATE    MOTHER. 

heart  has  not  as  great  a  need  as  yours  ?  She  alone 
can  soften  your  affliction.  Read  the  inclosed,  of 
which  she  wrote  the  first  eight  lines,  and  with  a  fal- 
tering accent  dictated  the  rest.  I  join  my  voice  to 
hers  ;  and  in  the  ardor  of  friendship,  turn  your  re- 
collection to  the  child  that  is  still  left  you  ;  and  to 
whom  you  owe  now,  more  than  ever,  all  the  love 
and  tenderness  that  a  father  can  show.  I  will  send 
her  to  you,  when  she  is  perfectly  recovered.  Her 
endearing  manner  will  console  your  bosom,  and  her 
education  occupy  your  mind,  which  otherwise  might 
yield  to  painful  recollections.  God  be  with  you  ! 
I  regret  that  I  have  nothing  to  offer  but  the  melan- 
choly language  of  condolence.         Yours, 

HORTENSIA    VlLLARS, 

.... 

LETTER    X. 

To  Mr.  Torrington. 
Dearest  Husband, 
I  find  myself  expiring.  I  am  going  to  my  chil- 
dren, who,  I  imagine  to  myself,  are  holding  out  their 
arms  that  I  should  follow  them  ;  and  we  shall  rest 
together  in  one  tomb.  Your  life  is  mine.  I  give  it 
my  surviving  infant.  Caroline  is  left  to  represent 
me.  Show  her  all  your  tenderness.  Be  her  sup- 
port ;  and  may  she  prove  your  consolation  !  Life  is 
short,  and  you  will  both  ere  long  rejoin  us,  when  we 
shall  not  fear  a  further  separation.  Think  not  of  my 
loss  so  much,  as  of  the  happy  place  where  I  shall 
wait  your  coming.  What  1  was  in  this  life,  I  will 
still  continue  in  another,  your  Amelia. 


295 


KINDNESS  AND  COMPLAISANCE. 


Emilia,  Victoria,  Juliet,  and  Sophia,  had  a  gov- 
erness who  loved  them  with  the  fondness  of  a 
mother.  This  governess  was  called  ^Mademoiselle 
Beaufoy. 

Her  greatest  wish  was,  that  her  pupils  should  be 
virtuous  in  order  to  be  happy  ;  that  a  friendship  for 
«ach  other  should  increase  the  pleasures  of  their 
childhood  ;  and  that  they  should  taste  those  pleas- 
ures without  diminution  or  anxiety. 

A  kind  indulgence,  and  exact  degree  of  justice 
towards  them  were  the  constant  motives  of  her  con- 
duct, whether  she  had  any  thing  to  pardon,  to  re- 
ward, or  punish. 

She  enjoyed  with  infinite  delight,  the  pleasing 
fruits  of  her  instruction  and  example. 

The  four  little  girls  began  to  be  the  happiest  chil- 
dren upon  earth.  They  told  each  other  of  their 
faults,  forgave  each  other,  shared  each  other's  joys, 
and  could  not  live  without  each  other. 

Alas !  by  what  fatality  do  children  poison  the 
source  of  their  own  enjoyments,  at  the  very  moment 
when  they  begin  to  taste  its  charms;  and  how  great 
is  their  happiness  when  they  are  placed  under  the 
eye  of  a  person  endowed  with  equal  prudence  and 
tenderness. 

It  happened  that  Mademoiselle  Beaufoy  was 
forced  to  leave  her  pupils  for  a  time,  as  certain  farn- 


296  KINDNESS    AND    COMPLAISANCE. 

ily  concerns  obliged  her  to  visit  France.  She  left 
them  with  reluctance,  made  a  sacri6ce  of  some  ad- 
vantages to  the  desire  of  quickly  settling  her  affairs, 
and  hardly  had  a  month  expired  when  she  returned 
in  safety  to  her  little  flock. 

They  all  received  her  with  the  greatest  joy  :  but, 
alas  I  what  an  unhappy  alteration  did  she  soon  per- 
ceive in  these  poor  children  ! 

If,  as  frequently  it  happened,  any  one  among  them 
asked  the  slightest  favour  of  another,  the  latter  ill- 
naturedly  refused  it,  and  hence  followed  discontent 
and  quarrels  : — the  uncommon  gaiety  that  hitherto 
had  been  remarkable  in  all  their  little  sports,  and 
made  their  work  itself  delightful,  was  now  changed 
to  peevishness  and  melancholy  ;  and  instead  of  those 
expressions  dictated  by  peace  and  friendship,  which 
were  before  heard  in  all  their  conversations,  nothing 
now  prevailed  among  them  but  incessant  bickerings. 
Did  either  of  them  wish  to  take  an  hour's  diversion 
in  the  garden  ?  her  sisters  were  sure  to  assign  some 
reason  for  remaining  in  their  chamber.  And,  in 
short,  it  was  enough  that  any  thing  should  meet  the 
wish  of  one  among  them  to  displease  the  others. 

It  particularly  chanced  one  day,  that  not  content- 
ed to  deny  each  other  every  sort  of  friendship 
and  kindness,  they  mutually  distressed  each  other 
with  reproaches.  Mademoiselle  Beaufoy,  who  sat 
as  a  witness  of  this  scene,  was  so  affected  by  it  as 
even  to  shed  tears. 

She  could  not  speak  a  word  ;  and  pensively  with- 
drew into  her  chamber,  that  <*she  might  the  better 
think  upon  the  means  of  rendering  back  to  these  un- 


-KINDNESS    AND    COMPLAISANCE.  297 

.happy  little  ones  the  pleasure  of  their  former  friend- 
ship and  reciprocal  attachment. 

She  was  still  employed  in  this  afflicting  task,  when 
the  four  young  ladies  entered  her  apartment,  with  a 
peevish  and  uneasy  look,  complaining  that  they 
could  be  no  longer  happy  in  each  other's  company. 
There  was  not  one  of  them  but  charged  the  rest  with 
causing  it ;  and  all  together  earnestly  desired  their 
governess  to  restore  them,  if  possible,  to  their  lost 
happiness. 

The  governess  received  them  in  a  very  serious 
manner,  saying,  I  observe,  my  children,  you  obstruct 
each  other  in  your  pleasures^  therefore,  that  this 
circumstance  may  never  come  to  pass  again,  let 
•each  take  up  her  corner  in  this  very  room,  if  she 
thinks  proper,  and  divert  herself  in  any  way  that 
•she  likes,  but  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  either  of  her 
sisters.  You  may  have  recourse  to  this  new  mode 
of  recreation  instantly,  as  you  have  leave  to  play 
till  night ;  but  each  in  her  corner,  remember,  as  I 
said  just  now. 

The  little  girls  were  charmed  with  this  proposal, 
took  their  places,  and  began  to  play. 

Sophia  entered  into  conversation  with  her  doll,  or 
rather  told  her  many  little  stories  ;  but  her  doll 
could  not  reply,  and  had  no  stories  in  her  turn  to 
tell.  It  was  in  vain  to  look  for  any  entertainment 
from  her  sisters  ;  they  were  playing,  each  asunder, 
in  their  corners. 

Juliet  took  her  battledore  and  shuttlecock,  yet 
none  applauded  her  dexterity  ;  she  would  gladly  have 
struck  it  across  the  room,  but  in  that  case  there  was 


298  KINDNESS    AND    COMPLAISANCE. 

nobody  to  send  it  back.  It  was  in  vain  to  hope 
such  service  from  her  sisters  :  they  were  playing, 
each  asunder,  in  their  corners. 

Emilia  could  have  wished  to  pass  the  time  that 
hung  heavy  on  her  at  a  game  of  which  she  was  very 
fond,  hunt  the  slipper  :  but,  alas  !  who  was  there  to 
pass  the  slipper  from  hand  to  hand  ?  It  was  in  vain 
to  ask  her  sisters  ;  they  were  playing,  each  asunder, 
in  their  corners. 

And  Victoria,  who  was  very  skilful  as  a  little 
housewife,  thought  how  she  might  give  her  friends 
an  entertainment,  and  of  course  send  out  for  many 
things  to  market.  But  who  was  to  receive  her  or- 
ders ?  It  was  in  vain  to  pitch  upon  her  sisters; 
they  were  playing  each  asunder  in  their  corners. 

It  was  just  the  same  with  every  other  play.  All 
of  them  supposed  that  it  would  be  compromising 
matters  to  approach  each  other,  and  therefore  they 
disdainfully  continued  in  their  solitude.  At  length 
the  day  concluded.  They  returned  again  to  Made- 
moiselle Beaufoy,  and  begged  her  to  show  them  a 
better  sort  of  amusement  than  that  which  she  had 
already  recommended. 

I  can  only  think  of  one,  my  children,  answered 
she,  which  you  yourselves  knew  very  well  formerly, 
but  which  it  seems  you  have  now  forgotten.  Yet, 
if  you  wish  to  put  it  once  more  into  practice,  I  can 
easily  remind  you  of  it. 

O,  we  wish  to  recollect  it  with  all  our  hearts,  re- 
plied they  ;  and  stood  all  attention  to  seize  with 
ardour  the  first  word  that  their  governess  should 
utter. 


KINDNESS   AND    COMPLAISANCE.  299 

It  is,  answered  she,  that  reciprocal  obligingness, 
that  mutual  friendship  which  sisters  owe  to  each 
other.  O,  my  dearest  little  friends  !  how  miserable 
have  you  contrived  to  make  yourselves  and  me, 
since  you  lost  it! 

She  stopped  short  when  she  had  uttered  thseefew 
words,  which  yet  were  inteirupted  frequently  by 
sighs. 

The  little  girls  appeared  astonished  and  struck 
dumb  with  sorrow  and  confusion  in  her  presence. 
She  held  out  her  arms;  they  rushed  at  once  towards 
her,  and  sincerely  promised  that  they  would  love 
each  other  for  the  future,  and  agree  as  they  had 
done  before  she  left  them. 

From  that  moment  they  betrayed  no  signs  of 
peevishness  to  trouble  their  harmonious  intercourse. 
Instead  of  bickerings  and  discontent,  nothing  now 
was  known  but  mutual  condescensions  which  de- 
lighted all  who  had  the  opportunity  of  being  with 
them. 

They  preserve  this  amiable  character  at  present 
in  the  world  among  their  friends,  of  whom  they  are 
acknowledged  to  be  the  delight  and  ornament. 

END    OF    VOL.    2. 


* 


CONTEXTS 
OF  THE  FOUR  VOLUMES. 


VOL.  I. 


Page, 

The  Little  Brother                .....  7 

The  Four  Seasons  14 

The  Snow  Storm      -             -             -             -             -  17 

The  Children  who  would  be  their  own  masters        -  24 

The  Bushes 32 

Arthur  -  -  -  -  -  -  -35 

The  Canary  Bird             -            -            -                         -  40 

Joseph  -  --  -  -  -  -47 

Cecilia  and  Marian    .      -             -             -             -             -  51 

The  Pleasures  of  Employment        -            -            -            -  64 

Little  Jack           .._...  72 

The  Hen       -------  90 

The  Death  Bed               -----  98 

God's  Bird 112 

A  good  Heart  compensates  for  many  Indiscretions          -  117 

Priscilla  and  Marcus              -             -             -             -             -  143 

The  three  Cakes            -----  149 

The  great  Garden    ------  156 

The  Spirit  of  Contradiction       ...             -  171 

The  two  Apple  Tress^          -                    '     -            -            -  177 

The  ugly  Beauty            -            -            -            -            -  ISO 

A  small  Pleasure  exchanged  for  a  great  one            -            -  182 

Matilda 194 

The  Deserter            -            -            -            -            -            -  197 

The  Watch 230 

BlindmairsBuff 242 

The  Ruffles  aud  Garters          -             -            -            -  271 

The  Conjuring  Bird              ....            -  277 

The  Little  Prisoner 304 


CONTENTS    OF   THE    FqjQR    VOLUMES. 


VOL.  II. 


Psze 

The  Little  Fiddler 5 

Maurice 32 

Vanity  Punished 59 

The  Little  Girl  deceived  by  her  Maid          ....  75 

The  Little  Needlewoman 87 

-The  Lamb 95 

The  Veteran  dismissed  with  Honour        ....  101 

Two  Heads  better  than  one 128 

The  Bird's  Nest 130 

The  Secret  of  Pleasure 134 

Man  is  best  as  he  is          .        .         .                 .         .         .  138 

Old  Colin ' 157 

The  Vine  Stump 165 

The  Silk  Dress 168 

The  School  for  Stepmothers 177 

The  man  who  rose  to  sudden  Fortune          ....  199 

The  young-  Sparrows 205 

The  Blacksmith,  or  two  made  happy            ....  209 

Au  old  Man  begging 211 

The  little  Vixen 216 

The  Military  Academy    ........  219 

The  same,  second  part        .                  241 

The  Dirty  Boots 262 

The  Affectionate  Mother 267 

Kindness  and  Complaisance 295 


ft 


